


Colony

by Eldalire



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Abusive Mother, Artist Grantaire, Artists, M/M, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Prostitution, Model Enjolras, art colony, artist feuilly, model jehan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-27 15:38:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 43,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8407285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eldalire/pseuds/Eldalire
Summary: Jehan finds himself out on the street, with nothing but the tattered clothes on his back, jobless, alone, with no money and nowhere to go.  But the young man with a dream of becoming a poet finds a safe harbor at an art colony, working as a model in return for room and board.  It seems almost too good to be true...





	1. Chapter 1

~This will probably be the only chapter with such graphic descriptions of bodily harm and hints of consent issues. The rest of the work will not be so graphic. Thank you!~

 

The last place Prouvaire wanted to be was laying in the doorway of the local pub, but there was nowhere else to go. It was raining hard, and the stone arch over the door offered at least a little shelter from the sheets of rain falling on the cobblestone street.

            The smell of stale beer and sweaty bodies assaulted the young man’s freckly nose, muddy water from a nearby puddle wicking up the hem of his thin cotton pants, the grime from the streets all but obliterating the cheerful stripes and florals that once decorated them. He pulled his shawl over his shoulders—the only thing he had left of anyone who cared for him.

            Jehan hadn’t been happy since his grandmother died ten years ago. He was eleven, then, and he and his mother lived with the old woman, helping around the house in exchange for food and shelter. Jehan’s mother was terribly vain and narcissistic, refusing to work, believing herself too good for anything other than fame. She aspired to be a singer, but was widely unsuccessful, forcing herself and her son into poverty, spending any income they had on lavish dinners and parties in the city. His grandmother, the mother of his dead father, had offered to house them, for she cared dearly for Jehan, but now she was gone, and so was her monetary support.

            Though his grandmother left him with a fair-sized estate, his mother had taken all of the money and used it on extravagant clothing, trips into the city, and other ways to push her ‘fame’. When the money ran out, she forced Jehan to make a living, though he was hardly fifteen. She rented him out to artists as a model, mostly wealthy, older men who had more interest in gazing upon his body than actually creating any artwork. The moment he reached maturity, he was not only rented out as a model, but also as an escort. His fair, waifish body made him desirable, and he easily passed as a young girl, with his long, light hair and small, trim build. More than once, his mother misrepresented him as a teenaged girl, and Jehan had been severely beaten for it, only to be found later, bloodied and battered in some back alley, his cheap makeup running down his face, and second-hand dress ruined beyond repair or recognition.

            He hated himself, sure he was simply disgusting. What else could he possibly believe? His body was abused, scarred, and nobody wanted him beyond something to play with for the night. Though only 21, he was tired, finished living and longing for rest. Yet the days continued to come, the terrible nights following. Anything he did make went to his mother, and if it didn’t, he would be punished severely.

            It was one such punishment that sent Jehan out on that particularly rainy night. He had come home with a loaf of bread, tired of the watery soup his mother made from the cabbage in the garden.

            “Where did you get that?” she barked, leaving her toilette and looking to her son, who stood in the filthy kitchen, still in a dress, his cheeks rouged, his eyes crusted in blue powder to hide the bruises. He could hardly walk, the pain was simply unbearable, but sitting was not an option, either.

            “I bought a loaf of bread,” he replied simply, truthfully. He offered his mother the bag. Much to his dismay, she tore it from his delicate fingers and threw it to the floor, mashing it under her high-healed shoe. He flinched at the sound.

            “Why?! You little bastard, now I have no money to go out! How do you expect my fans to follow me if I haven’t got the money to leave the house?! You’re useless, Jean! You can’t even whore yourself out right!” she back-handed his powdered face, her tacky rings slicing his cheek. He cried out.

            “If only you really were a girl! You act enough like one! You look like one! But if you were a girl, you’d be a proper harlot! Imagine what your father must think of you! You’re disgusting! Get out of my sight!”

            “Mother, I—” he attempted to defend himself, but was met with a fist in his knotted hair.

            “Get away from me!” she more or less tossed him into his sparse bedroom, slamming the door and bolting it closed.

Jehan left that night, changing out of his ‘working’ clothes and leaving through the broken window. He had been on the street for three days, hadn’t eaten anything, and was now out in the rain with nowhere to go.

           

He was almost asleep, slumped against the stone wall, when someone gave him a kick. He jumped, and gazed up at the man looming above him.

            “Now what’s an angel like you doing out in the rain?” he asked, his voice suave, smooth, sinister. A voice Jehan knew well. He pulled his shawl tighter around his shoulders and looked away, out into the street, hoping the man would lose interest, but it was not so, and Jehan soon felt a rough grip on his boney chin, whipping his head up and around to look the man in the face, his jaw unshaven, his eyes dark. He smelled of alcohol, his breath wretched and hot in Jehan’s face.

            “You’re a stupid slut, you know,” he growled, inches away from Jehan’s pallid face. “Most of the others can tell when they’re being offered a job,”

            “Leave me,” Jehan replied weakly, pushing the man away placidly with his skeletal arm. His mother kept him thin, said that it made him prettier. That, coupled with the fact he hadn’t eaten in three days, caused what was left of Jehan’s strength to wan. All he wished to do was go to sleep. Why couldn’t he just go to sleep…?

            “Leave you? Leave you!” he shouted, grabbing Jehan’s skinny wrist and hauling him up to standing. The blood drained from head, flashes dancing in his vision as the edges of his world became black. He stumbled, supporting himself against the wall. “You don’t get to decide, you little bitch, I do! And I say you’re for sale!”

            “I am not for sale!” Jehan tossed back as best he could, attempting to sound some sort of menacing, but he was too tired. He was so, so tired.

            “Oh, well if that’s the case, I’ll just take what I want from you for free!” he grabbed Jehan by the hair and dragged him out into the rain, behind the pub, into a dark alleyway, grinding his face against the harsh stone wall, reopening the scabbed gashes left my his mother’s rings. The anonymous, would-be John grabbed his shoulders and whipped him around, shoving him against the wall once again, this time grinding his back against the wall, tearing his thin shirt and scraping the skin from his protruding shoulder blades. He cried as the back of his head was cracked against the stone with an audible thud.

            “I’ll give you a proper reason to scream,” the man whispered against his ear, his hot, sickly breath dizzying. He planted sloppy, open-mouthed kisses to Jehan’s pale neck, adding new marks to the plethora of purple spots that already resided there, and ran his hand up his shirt, the paper-thin material completely soaked through. Jehan was too exhausted to protest.

            When the man discarded Jehan’s shirt, he suddenly became enraged, grabbing Jehan by the shoulders once again and throwing him to the cobblestone.

            “You disgusting bugger!” he howled. “You aren’t a girl at all! Disgusting, for men to look like you do!” he gave him a kick between the legs as he sat limply against the wall, rain water from a gutter somewhere far above pelted him with massive drops like falling bullets. He doubled over, only to receive another kick to the ribs.

 

After that…he couldn’t remember what happened after that.

 

—o0o—

 

When his eyes fluttered open, he found himself in the same alleyway, but instead of against the wall, he was laying near naked in the middle of the passage, his clothes in a haphazard pile beside him, only his shoes and his lightweight bottoms remained, the filthy, bright pattern hiding the blood. He took a shaky breath, once again realizing how exhausted he was. Just being off the ground was dizzying, and he knew he had to eat something soon, or he would be unable to stand at all. He reached into the pocket of his pants, and was unsurprised to find it empty, the little money he had was gone.

            He sighed, and approached the bakery on the corner, the one he had purchased the loaf of bread from just three days before, and pushed the door open.

            “Can I help you?” the man at the counter said. Jehan expected to see concern when he met the man’s eye, as he had just entered his place of business doubled over, gaunt, and bloodied, but instead he found disgust, the large man rounding the counter and standing in front of tiny Jehan, blocking his path into the shop.

            “Please, monsieur, I am starving,” he pleaded, gazing up at him through eyelashes caked with blood.

            “Fine, but I cannot have you in my shop. Pay up and I’ll bring it out,” he replied, making no move to allow Jehan further inside.

            “I have no money,” he admitted, “I was mugged last night, I woke up in the alley—”

            “None of that! Out! You’ve got no money and you’re scaring off other customers!” he took a step forward, his hulking form forcing Jehan backwards, out the door, where he stumbled over the threshold and landed hard on his tailbone out into the street. The man slammed the door, and Jehan covered his face with his hands.

            When he finally found the energy to stand, he dragged himself to the water pump behind the bakery, secluded, back by the edge of the woods, and gave the pump a few good pushes. He used the icy water to clean his face as best he could, even the slightest touch burning the open scratches on his cheek. After looking over his shoulder to be sure he was alone, he removed his filthy clothing, wiping himself down as best he could, taking inventory of his wounds. He found he was still bleeding, and was unsure what to do besides pull his clothes back on and hide it until he could think of some way to stop it. That, or until he bleed out, but that didn’t seem so horrible in that moment.

            After cleaning up as much as he could, he limped back to the street, unsure of where he was going, but honestly uncaring. He was just waiting to keel over and stay there, let himself fall.

            He gasped and nearly screamed when someone rested a hand on his skeletal shoulder.

            “Whoa! Calm yourself, monsieur!” the owner of the hand said with a small smile when Jehan whipped around, his breath coming in rattles. “I do not mean to offend, but you seem unwell,” he continued.

            “Thank you very much,” Jehan tossed back, untrusting, and continuing his slow, labored journey down the sidewalk, trying to appear normal, trying to portray confidence. A gentle hand on the shoulder meant nothing except that somebody wanted to take advantage of him, wanted to butter him up so he would agree to whatever they liked, for pay or otherwise, and he promised himself when he woke that morning he would never allow anyone to touch him again.

            “Forgive me, I only mean to help,” the man said, following him closely, taking his hand. Jehan yanked it away, hurting his own fragile wrist in the process. He rubbed at it with his opposite hand, attempting a disgusted face at the man, but it really only served to make him look more pitiful and small.

            “You cannot help me. I do not want any of your _help_ ,” he hissed, his hair all a mess, falling in dirty tendrils around his face. The man sighed and frowned, feeling truly sorry for poor Jehan. He had seen him before, the beautiful young man with unusual red hair and massive eyes. He had seen him creep onto the streets at dusk, appearing frightened and frail, and he had seen him sulking home at dawn, his once beautifully braided hair messy and tangled, new bruises blooming on his neck and arms, typically with a limp. He had even seen the young man dragged into alleys and inns by men with dark faces, men who twisted his arm and pulled at his hair even before being shrouded in shadow.

            “You need money,” he attempted again, releasing Jehan’s hand willingly. “I can give you a job,”

            “I told you, I do not want your _‘help’_ , and I do not want whatever ‘ _job’_ you have to offer me. I may be a whore,” a tear came to his eye. He had never used that word before, and it stung, “but I will not be had by a rat,” he spat, pulling his thin shawl tighter over his shoulders as he turned, his outburst causing a stabbing pain in his abdomen, and he winced, glad his back was turned.

            “You do not understand,” the man attempted a final time. “I can offer you an honest job, and I will pay you for your work in room and board. I am from the art colony, and we are in need of a model,” he explained.

            “You wish me to model for you?” Jehan asked in a whisper, turning back to the man, his eyes sad. “Me? Truly?”

            “Yes. If you do not mind posing,”

            “I am not…” he searched for the word, “not exactly…beautiful,” he finally finished his thought, thinking of all the drawings and paintings he had seen in gallery windows and in the homes of some of the wealthier men he’d spent the night with. They all depicted perfect people, will lawless figures; strong men, plump, healthy women, rosy-cheeked children. He was none of those things, and couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to paint him.

            “That’s alright. You are different. We grow tired of the same body types day after day.” He explained with a smile.

            “…You’re sure?”

            “I am sure. Come, I will bring you,”

            “Is it very far?” Jehan asked, worried he would be unable to make the journey. He could hardly stand as it was, and walking any distance at all seemed like a doomed task.

            “Not to worry,” the man said with a smile, taking Jehan into his arms. Jehan hadn’t the energy to fight, though he was terribly frightened, and allowed himself to be carried. The young man kept up a smile, though he soon realized the hand supporting Jehan’s knees was covered in blood.


	2. Chapter 2

“My God, Feuilly, what’s this?” Joly called, meeting him in the doorway, Jehan little more than dead weight in his arms, passed out.

            “I’ve found our new model,” he replied.

            “We need a figure, not a cadaver!”

            “I was hoping you’d be able to sort that out,” he explained, passing Joly on the porch and heading into the large house, bringing Jehan through another interior door. Joly followed closely, walking quickly to keep up with Feuilly’s long strides—he was very tall.

            “Oh please don’t put him on my be—okay,” Joly attempted to protest as Feuilly rested Jehan on Joly’s duvet. Joly was very particular about his bed, and kept his things very clean—obsessively so.

            “Sorry,” Feuilly apologized, “I’ll clean it. Just help him, please. He’s bleeding from…somewhere,” he continued, knowing full well what caused Jehan’s injury, but too respectable to say it.

            “I’ll try…” Joly murmured, “I left med school to be an artist, remember…I’m not a real doctor,”

            “You’re the realest doctor I’ve got,” Feuilly said with a smile, giving Joly a loving pat on the back.

 

—o0o—

 

“It has been far longer than an hour, Grantaire,” Enjolras noted from where he reclined on an antique sofa, wearing nothing save for a translucent cloth covering the bare minimum.

            “Hush, I’m busy,” the artist said absently in reply.

            “I am getting up,” he barked in reply.

            “You are not,”

            “I am! They don’t pay me enough to put up with you!” he shouted, standing and stretching against the artist’s wishes.

            “Dammit!” Grantaire shouted, raking a paint-covered hand through his wiry hair. “I’ll never get the cloth to drape the same way!”

            “You will survive,” Enjolras replied, turning and looking out the large picture window, shaking out his golden curls.

            “Would you like your robe?” Grantaire asked with a smirk.

            “As if you _want me_ to want my robe,” he tossed back, stretching his arms above his head, giving Grantaire an impeccable view of his backside. The artist smiled, approaching the young man and drawing him back by his slender waist. Enjolras reached up and around, running his fingers through Grantaire’s hair.

            “It’s almost five,” he said as Grantaire kissed the crook of his neck. “I have to model for the others,”

            “They will wait,” he replied, turning Enjolras to face him, looking down and meeting him for a kiss.

            Though Enjolras wouldn’t be considered short, he wasn’t exceptionally tall either, and most everyone was dwarfed by Grantaire, who was almost seven feet tall. He nuzzled his slightly-too-large nose into Enjolras’ golden curls, leading him back to the antique sofa stationed in the center of the room. He placed a gentle hand on Enjolras’ chest, admiring the silky smoothness he found there, so opposite his own. He leaned down, kissing Enjolras passionately, his hand wandering downward with the delicacy of a brushstroke. Enjolras took a sudden, sharp breath.

            “Not now,” he said lightly, with a laugh. “You have paint on your hands. Everyone will know!”

            “They already know, Enjolras,” Grantaire joked in reply.

            “You’re impossible,”

            “I am wild,” he bent his head for another kiss, but Enjolras pushed him away, a tease. He snatched his silk robe and covered himself with a smirk, much to Grantaire’s dismay—he had already gotten quite excited, and the evidence of their encounter still visible through Enjolras’ paper-thin robe wasn’t helping.

            “I hate you, did you know that?” Grantaire said with a sneer, taking Enjolras into his arms once again.

            “Yet you keep coming back to me,” he replied.

            “How could I stay away? You are addictive.”

            “Then I am the worst enabler,”

            “Perhaps you are,” he agreed, sharing another kiss before finally releasing his muse, allowing him to leave the studio and head to the larger, shared studio space at the back of the massive home, where the others would soon be painting or drawing. Enjolras was a popular model, and lived at the colony, offering his services to many of the artists there. Most of his time, however, was spent with Grantaire, posing for his many paintings. He was a favorite of the Salon in Paris, and had many commissions to complete, as well as personal works for next year’s Salon.

            The moment Enjolras was out of sight, Grantaire exhaled swiftly, as if he had been holding his breath, and hurried off to the washroom to relieve himself.

           

Bahorel, Cosette, and Combeferre were waiting when Enjolras entered the expansive room, surrounded on all three external walls with windows. The light was divine, and made Enjolras’ creamy skin and golden hair glow. He sat on the model stand with a smile, his cheeks still flushed from Grantaire’s scratchy chin, his stubble leaving rosy blooms on his face and neck.

            “Hello everyone,” he cooed, looking about the room, just as Courfeyrac entered, stationing his easel just beside Combeferre…as usual.

            “Hello, Enjolras,” Bahorel greeted with a smile, sitting on a drawing horse, his clipboard resting on his lap.

            “What am I doing today?” he asked, standing on the raised box, swinging his arms, giving them a stretch. He had been sitting in quite an awkward position for Grantaire for quite a few hours. He was stiff.

            “I’d like a series of two minute poses, if possible,” Cosette said in her quiet sort of way.

            “Is that agreeable?” Enjolras asked the rest of the room. There was mutual agreement, and Enjolras dropped his robe, assuming a relatively simple contrapposto arrangement.

            “Where is Joly?” he asked, staying perfectly still, besides his mouth. He was typically quiet, but Joly prided himself on being punctual, despite his many ‘ailments’, and was rarely late. “Is he well?”

            “I believe he is helping Feuilly with something…Combeferre replied, looking over the rim of his glasses to Courfeyrac, who raised an eyebrow. Combeferre was clearly stating less than he actually knew.

            “What sort of something is that?” Courfeyrac asked with a cheeky grin. Though they acted absorbed in their work, the rest of the room listened intently for the answer. Enjolras switched poses, sitting this time.

            “I’m not sure what the context is, so I do not wish to elaborate much, however I believe I saw Feuilly carry either a young woman or a very gangly young man through the front door this morning. By the looks of him, he was having quite a bit of trouble. Seeing as Joly is the only one among us with any medical training, I expect Feuilly asked him to fix up his guest.”

            “Interesting…” Bahorel said, holding up his pencil, measuring the angle of Enjolras’ back.

            “Montparnasse moved back to the city…Perhaps Feuilly’s found a new model,” Cosette suggested, returning to her drawing.

            “I hope so,” Combeferre said, “not to offend, Enjolras, but you cannot always meet our needs. Not to mention you’ve occupied much of our work as of late. I fear the Salon will grow bored.” Enjolras smiled.

            “Terribly sorry I bore you, Combeferre,” he joked, switching poses for the third time. “Perhaps this will change your mind?” he placed his lower arms onto the ground, lifting his legs until his entire body was inverted, his back curved in an elegant line.

            “Don’t hurt yourself, darling,” Cosette giggled.

            “Do not make yourself _dizzy_ ,” Courfeyrac added. Enjolras tossed him a glare.

            The entire household, save Grantaire, called Enjolras by his endearing nickname, Vertigo. He was plagued by sudden fits of dizziness, and since Montparnasse left, a dizzy day for Enjolras meant no model for the artists until he was feeling better.

            “I’m fine,” Enjolras assured them, returning to his feet delicately, righting himself and assuming another pose.

 

—o0o—

 

“What happened to you, if you don’t mind me asking,” Joly dabbed at the scratches on Jehan’s cheek, dirtied with grit from the street. Jehan winced, the alcohol stung.

            “A lot of things…” Jehan said in hardly a breath. Joly waited for him to continue, but when he did not, he decided not to push. Instead he cleaned and dressed his face, applying a gauze pad to keep it tidy.

            “Do you know where the blood is coming from?” he asked next. An honest question…He did not wish to cause discomfort checking for lesions, but there was blood everywhere, making it impossible to pinpoint a location, though he guessed it was somewhere below the waist from the state of Jehan’s trousers.

            “It’s stopped now, I think,” Jehan said, his cheeks flushing red, embarrassed. The bleeding must have stopped, for the blood still on his clothes was either cold or dry.

            “I’ll still need to clean it. You look like you’ve been dipped in water then rolled in dirt,” Joly noted with a meek smile. Jehan sighed and turned away, tugging at the band of his pants, hoping Joly would get the hint and would not make him explain. Joly nodded in understanding, closing the door quietly before disrobing Jehan gingerly.

            “You need not be embarrassed,” Joly assured him, tending to Jehan’s wound. There was little way around it—the treatment was intrusive, and tears slipped from his eyes. “I did attend medical school. I completed four years,” he explained, offering Jehan a clean gauze to wipe his eyes. “I am only very sorry that someone caused you such pain,”

            “I’m sorry I’ve ruined your bed,” Jehan whispered, attempting to change the subject.

            “Not to worry,” Joly replied. “It was time for a new duvet anyhow. This one is very old. Full of dust and dander, I’m sure. I suspect it’s been causing my congestion,” Jehan assumed he was lying, but nodded anyway, facing the wall, laying on his side, offering Joly an easier angle to complete his work. “Are you hurt anyplace else?” he asked when he had finished.

            “My knees are scraped…there are bruises,”

            “I will draw you a bath, and we shall see what else can be done. Is that agreeable?”

            “Yes, thank you.” he murmured, sighing, wanting nothing more than to get out of his dirty, bloodied clothing. As if hearing his thoughts, Joly peeked around the bathroom door—most of the household bedrooms had their own bathroom.

            “I will have Eponine make you new clothes. Until then, I’m sure Enjolras wouldn’t mind lending you some, he’s about your size…perhaps a little taller, but very thin,” he explained. Jehan did not reply, only listened to the water run into the bathtub. Jehan hadn’t had a hot bath in years, and he was quite looking forward to it.

            A moment later, Joly returned to the bedside and helped Jehan sit up, then supported his weakened body as they walked to the bathroom.

 

            The hot water was nothing short of heavenly.

            “Do you need help cleaning up?” Joly asked. Jehan shook his head with a smile, reclining in the claw foot tub, the edge cool on his neck. “Then I shall fix you some toast…you must be nearly starving. Just give a shout if you need anything,” he left the bathroom and shut the door. Jehan hadn’t felt so comfortable in a very, very long time.

 

 

 

~Leave a comment!


	3. Chapter 3

After everyone was done their drawing for the night, finished with his services for the day, Enjolras decided to check up on this new model. He crept across the foyer, the large central room of the home, on which bordered the other rooms of the house. There were two bedrooms, one of them Joly’s due to his pigeoned foot that caused him grief with stairs, the other belonging to Grantaire, who sleepwalks, the kitchen, the large, windowed studio at the back of the house, and Grantaire’s personal studio, which he rented from Feuilly, the owner of the home, in addition to his monthly colony membership fees. The floor squeaked, and he hoped whoever this new guest was wasn’t asleep.

            He knocked gently on Joly’s door, and Joly answered, peeking through the crack.

            “Hello,” he said, exiting the room and closing the door before Enjolras could see properly inside.

            “Hello,” Enjolras replied, curious.

            “Can I help you?” he asked. Though kind, Joly could come across as rude, and if Enjolras didn’t know better, he would have been offended.

            “I came to inquire about our guest,”

            “I’m not sure he’s up for meeting anyone just yet…I will ask him,” he returned to the room, closing the door behind him, leaving Enjolras outside. He returned a moment later and allowed him to pass. Enjolras was taken aback by what he saw the crumpled figure in the bed, the top of the white duvet stained pink with stubborn blood that hadn’t washed out, despite Joly’s best attempts. The young man, at least Enjolras thought he was a young man, looked truly decrepit, with watery skin and a sunken face that may have been beautiful, once. His entire tiny body was covered in scrapes, bruises, and cuts, and that was only what Enjolras could see, for he was covered in blankets from the chest down. He seemed frightened, and pulled the blankets up to his chin when Enjolras entered.

            “Hello,” Enjolras said, approaching the bed.

            “H-hello,” the trembling figure replied.

            “I heard a rumor that you are our new model,” he said with a smile, sitting on the edge of the bed, hoping to ease the young man’s nerves.

            “I suppose that’s me,” he replied.

            “Welcome, then! I am happy to have the help. Our other model returned to Paris just a few weeks ago, and I have had trouble keeping up with demands on my own,”

            “You work here as well?”

            “I do,”

Jehan should have guessed the man before him was a model. He was simply a beautiful example of a human being, his skin clear and flawless, his hair a halo of long, golden curls that fell to his shoulders, tied back in a loose red ribbon at the back of his head. He was trim, but healthy, and taller than tiny Jehan, with lively eyes and a strong, symmetrical face sprinkled with just the right amount of sunshine freckles. Not to mention he was in nothing but a silken robe, a delicate pattern of cherry blossoms sparkled against a pale blue background.

“I am called Enjolras,” he added.

“We call him Vertigo, though,” Joly added from his chair in the corner. “He plagued by dizziness. That’s why we need you. Sometimes he spends all day in bed.”

“It is only an occasional nuisance,” Enjolras flashed Joly a quick glare.

“Jehan,” he replied, offering his hand from under the covers. Enjolras shook it with a warm smile.

“I am glad to meet you. I do hope you’re feeling better soon. Joly, just give a shout if there is anything I can do,”

“Actually, Enjolras, I do have a favor to ask,” he said, standing from his armchair in the corner, his matching pajamas hanging off his shoulders as he leaned on his cane.

“Yes,”

“I was curious as to if I might borrow your bedroom for the night…possibly the next few nights. I mean, seeing as you and Grantaire—”

“Yes of course,” he quickly agreed. “Do you require help up the stairs?”

“I think I will be alright,” he grinned. “I am only growing tired, and seeing as dear Jehan is currently occupying my own bed, I—”

“I am sorry,” Jehan cooed. “I could move, if you’d help me,”

“Oh no, none of that! Just ring this if you need me, and I will come straight away,” he handed Jehan the bell from his night table, one he used often to call Grantaire or Feuilly when he was in need of assistance himself. “I am going to turn in now, though, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Jehan replied quietly. “Thank you for helping me, I truly appreciate it,” Joly smiled, leaving the room with Enjolras, closing the door behind them.

“He’s sweet,” Enjolras said as he walked Joly to the bottom of the staircase.

“He is. I feel very sorry for him. The poor thing’s torn apart. His mother worked him as a call girl to pay for her selfishness. He’s quite hurt…in spirit as well as body,”

“I hope he feels himself again soon,”

“As do I,”

“Good night, Joly,”

“Goodnight, Enjolras,” he smiled as the model turned towards the back of the house, toward Grantaire’s bedroom.

He found Grantaire sitting beside the lamp, putting the finishing touches on his latest masterpiece: Enjolras reclined on the window seat, gazing over the marsh at the back of the home. The artist looked up when he heard the doorknob turn, and stood, greeting his muse at the door.

“Good evening, my darling,” he whispered, raking his deft fingers through golden curls. He pulled out the ribbon, letting Enjolras’ hair fall wildly around his face.

“The turpentine fumes have gone to your head,” Enjolras smiled, dancing around him and opening the window above the easel, the springtime breeze blowing the sheer curtains into billowing sails. “Why are you cooped up in here? You could have joined the others drawing this evening,”

“No. I have too much to do. I have to ready the rest of these for submission to the salon.”

“Why do you care what the salon thinks? They’re all stuck up, bourgeois academics who wouldn’t know a work of art if it were shoved up their—”

“The ones who get into the salon are the ones who sell, my darling,” Grantaire replied, approaching Enjolras, forcing him back onto the bed, were he laid down, his arms sprawled, his robe hanging open at his chest. Grantaire helped it the rest of the way off before pulling down the duvet: a far more colorful piece of work than Joly’s plain white comforter. Grantaire was of Greek heritage, and his bedding reflected such: a patchwork of brightly colored, embroidered textiles from the Mediterranean.

“But wouldn’t you rather create works _you_ are happy with? Wouldn’t that make your life so much more meaningful?” Enjolras continued, snuggling up against Grantaire’s chest as he lay beside him.

“Maybe, but I haven’t much choice. If I do not sell paintings, I cannot pay my dues, and if I cannot pay my dues, I cannot create anything at all.”

“I suppose so…I only wish the salon would accept other things…other types of work outside the academic. They smash the dreams of so many worthy artists,”

“The world is not a kind place to the artist. I have simply been lucky.”

“Lucky to have the very best model on the entire earth?” Enjolras inquired with a smirk, a jest, of course.

“Most certainly,” Grantaire grinned, guiding Enjolras’ chin up for a kiss. Enjolras fisted his hand against Grantaire’s chest, eliciting a sharp intake of breath. The kiss was broken and Enjolras raised an eyebrow.

“You are truly exquisite, my Apollo, but you are tearing out my chest hair,” Enjolras snorted out a laugh, which Grantaire silenced with another loving kiss. “There is a chance,” Grantaire continued after a long moment, “that I did not accompany the others this evening because I am a terribly jealous creature,”

“What do you mean? You are easily the most talented here,” Enjolras whispered in reply.

“Perhaps, but I am not fond of watching as others stare at my Apollo,”

“You have nothing to worry over. I have privately modeled for almost everyone in the house. I could have had my pick. And yet here I am,” he tangled his long, pale legs with Grantaire’s,. He gave him a playful kick under the covers.

“Your feet are freezing, you fiend,” he growled into the crook of Enjolras’ neck, nuzzling his clavicle with his large nose.

“Warm me up, then!” he tossed back, snuggling closer, if it were possible.

 

 

 

~Would you rather read more about ExR or Jehan?  Or another couple? 


	4. Chapter 4

A week passed, and finally, Jehan was ready to join the rest of the household. Feuilly, the owner of the property and one of many artists, showed him to his bedroom, the one on the corner of the house, just above Grantaire’s and next door to Enjolras’. Enjolras helped him get settled in. They had become friends over the past few days, and Jehan was quite fond of him. He was headstrong, intelligent, sometimes stubborn…Everything Jehan aspired to be. Not to mention, he was kind, and had taken Jehan under his wing, cooking his meals, giving him one of the robes he used for modeling, and doing his laundry for the first few days.

            “Are you sure you wish for me to keep this?” Jehan asked as he folded the silken robe on his lap, the happy yellow silk making the intricate blue dragons and silvery clouds shine.

            “More than sure, Jehan. The yellow doesn’t suit me…but it looks lovely with your hair,”

            “Where do you get them all? They must cost a fortune, being silk and all…”

            “Grantaire brings them back from Paris. Japanese fashion is all the rage, even in artwork. Have you been to his room? He has woodblock prints everywhere. He loves them,”

            “I haven’t spoken much to anyone besides Joly and Feuilly…Besides you, I mean,”

            “Everyone is very sweet,” Enjolras replied with a smile, thinking of Grantaire, their time together, and pondering how he would pose him for today’s masterpiece.

            “Do…I mean…Do they have families? Anyone here, I mean,”

            “Oh yes, most of them do. Marius’ grandfather comes to visit sometimes and pays his dues. Marius struggles quite a bit to sell his work, as he has never been accepted into the salon,” Enjolras made a face. “Cosette was orphaned, but her adoptive father is quite supportive of her artistic endeavors. He worries for her, though. He drops in to check on her. He’s a very kind man, Valjean he’s called,”

            “Cosette…she is the one who made me new clothes?” Jehan asked, looking down to his newly made ensemble: a simple shirt with a loud yellow pattern Jehan quite enjoyed, and a pair of plain linen trousers he rolled up to his knees.

            “No, that is Eponine. She attended the Bauhaus in Germany for a while, that’s a school for craftspeople. She makes most of our furniture and clothing. Her parents are in prison, but her younger sister comes by occasionally just to say hello. Sometimes Eponine goes to visit her in Paris.”

            “I would like to meet her…She has given me so much. I owe her at the very least a thank you,”

            “You will meet her at some point, I’m sure. She keeps to herself, mostly. She has little interest in the academic art most of the others strive for, save Courfeyrac and Marius…they’re more impressionists, I think,” he smiled. “Courfeyrac has been featured in the Salon d'Automne,”

            “What is that?” Asked Jehan. “I have heard of the Paris Salon, but not any other,”

            “It is an exhibition for artists who were deemed unworthy of the ‘real’ Salon.”

            “You dislike the Paris Salon, then,”

            “Very much so. It allows for so little creativity. Everything must be just so, and if it is not, you are deemed mediocre and will never sell a piece. Meanwhile, they select the same artists year after year, giving a select few a thriving career while the others starve trying to make a living with their passion. I find it incredibly degrading,”

            “But what about Grantaire?” Jehan continued, hoping he wasn’t touching on a sensitive subject. “His pieces are in the Salon every year…So I hear, anyhow…” Though he didn’t know for sure, the way the others talked about them, it seemed Enjolras and Grantaire were somehow involved. Jehan had also gathered that Grantaire was the most successful in the household, finding great fame with his artwork. At least one of his pieces made the Salon every year, often more, and most of them featured Enjolras.

            “I wish he would not submit his work,” Enjolras began. “They are not truly his. When he paints as he wishes, the results are incredible. There is so much feeling, so many colors you could never count them all, colors you didn’t know were real until he created them. But nobody sees them because all he submits are the run-of-the-mill, classically posed paintings that are no different from the others. But I cannot blame him…If he does not submit his work, he will not be able to support himself. It is a terrible cycle, and still everyone aspires to join. I do not understand it,”

            “I see,” Jehan replied quietly. Though Enjolras hadn’t realized, his voice had risen considerably, as it did when he was passionate. Jehan hoped he would never be on the opposite side of Enjolras’ rage. “But what about you? Do you have any family?” Enjolras scoffed.

            “I had a family. In fact, I was the only son of one of the wealthiest families in France, but they decided I was not the compliant dream child, so I was sent away,”

            “But why?” Jehan said with a frown, sitting on the bed while Enjolras sat in the chair beside the door. “What could you have possibly done to make your family disown you that way?”

            “They caught me with another young man,” he admitted almost sadly, “and they were not accepting. They told me that if I did not change, I would no longer be welcome in their home and I would be cut off from their financial aid. I told them I did not believe change was possible, that I had felt the way I did my entire life, and that I saw no harm in it, so they sent me out. I haven’t spoken to any of my relations since,”

            “I am sorry,” Jehan said, honestly remorseful. Jehan was very perceptive, and felt empathy very strongly.

            “That’s alright. It’s funny, actually. Little do they know they are the best customer of a certain Grantaire,” He grinned. “They apparently did not realize I was the model for nearly all of their pieces. That, or they missed me so much they wanted a masterful rendition of me in the nude,” Jehan laughed, and Enjolras was glad for it. Jehan had been relatively quiet and understandably dreary since his arrival. Any laughter was like sunshine.

            “I suppose everything turned out alright, then,”

            “I’d say so,” he smiled, standing and stretching his long arms above his head, his loose poet sleeves falling to his elbows. “If you would excuse me, Prouvaire, I have to…” Enjolras sat back down on the bed, his eyes swinging back and forth, as if the room were spinning.

            “Are you alright?” Jehan asked. Enjolras reclined very slowly until he was laying flat on the bed.

            “Yes. Would you fetch Grantaire for me?” Jehan nodded, concerned, and hurried down the stairs to Grantaire’s studio room. He knocked on the door, and Grantaire opened it promptly, seeming angry.

            “I know you haven’t been here very long, so I’m not angry at you, but you should know that when this door is shut, nobody comes in,” he said gruffly, plucky mandolin music in a traditional Greek tune rattled from the phonograph in the corner. The floor was littered with paper, paint tubes, brushes, and other art supplies, strewn about haphazardly, the only clean space of floor the circle around the easel Grantaire had set low to the ground. The heavy scent of turpentine wafted from the doorway, and Jehan couldn’t help but sneeze.

            “I’m sorry, I just…Enjolras told me to get you,” he explained. Grantaire’s demeanor suddenly changed from gruff to concerned, and he stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him. Jehan became aware of his full height when he straightened, and was honestly intimidated. Jehan was hardly 5’4, and Grantaire was easily 6’10. Jehan had to tilt his head back to look him in the face.

            “Where is he?” Grantaire asked when Jehan seemed to zone out, thinking about how small he must appear to Grantaire.

            “Upstairs in my room,” he replied quietly, starting up the stairs. Grantaire took them two at a time, passing Jehan quickly and easily. He reached the bedroom before Jehan was up the stairs.

            “Are you alright?” Grantaire asked as he brushed the golden curls away from Enjolras’ eyes.

            “Dizzy,” he replied shortly, annoyed. This happened relatively often, and was truly crippling. At it’s worst, Enjolras would be nearly bedridden for three days, unable to lift his head. He hoped this spell wouldn’t be so terrible.

            “Can I do anything?” Jehan cooed from the doorway.

            “You’ll have to do quite a lot, actually!” Enjolras joked. “I can’t stand, and therefore cannot model. You’ll have to take my place,” Jehan’s face flushed.

            “I-I mean…Are you sure?”

            “Yes I’m sure! The others will be quite glad, I should imagine. I used to be the only one, but now you can fill my position in my absence.”

            “Oh…Alright,” Jehan said as Grantaire threaded an arm under Enjolras’ shoulders, the other under his knees, and hoisted him up, holding him close. Enjolras rested his head on Grantaire’s shoulder.

            “Shall I take you to bed?” he asked.

            “Please do,” Enjolras replied with a sigh. Jehan was left alone in his bedroom, his mind racing.

            Nobody had seen Jehan nude save Joly, who helped him in and out of the bath on his first day at the colony. He was quite self conscious, especially after seeing Enjolras, who was so confident and poised, so much so he spent most of his day in nothing but a silk robe tied loosely around his slender waist. His skin was creamy and clear, with little other than a peppering of freckles decorating his shoulders and back, and his figure was somehow strong and delicate at once. Jehan was much different.

            Though Enjolras had told him all week he was beautiful, and had nothing to be nervous about, Jehan couldn’t help but think how easy that was for him to say. He was sure it must be a lie. Even when fully clothed, it was obvious that Jehan had seen far more cruelty than he should have. His cheeks were riddled with pale scars from years of undeserved slaps, the newest of which hadn’t yet fully healed. His hands shook nervously, and he had trouble holding eye contact for longer than a few seconds. It was clear to see he was unwell in some way, and he was fearful the others, whom he hardly knew, would be judgmental. What’s worse, he was expected to not only show his face, but the rest of his body as well, and things only got worse the more skin he exposed.

            His back was probably the worst, riddled with scars and welts from fingernails and belts. He picked at his skin, invisible bumps and scabs he simply could not put up with, often making himself bleed. He was covered in small wounds he had inflicted upon himself. And that was only the top half. There was obvious trauma in other, more personal places—trauma he did not wish to make public, but he did not have a choice. It seemed most of his life was in the hands of others, however well-intending they were.

            Jehan crept to the large, windowed studio at the back of the house, where many of the resident artists were already setting up easels. Jehan, still fully clothed, sat on the model stand at the center of the room, entering so quietly, most of the others hadn’t realized he was there, until one young man, wearing large, circular glasses, made his presence known.

            “You are Jehan!” he said with a warm smile, approaching and offering him his hand. Jehan shook it timidly. “I am Combeferre. I am glad to finally meet you    . Enjolras has been telling us so many lovely things about you,”

            “O-oh…Well, that was kind of him,” he replied, his eyes darting as the others began to approach, meaning to introduce themselves. Next came another man with wavy honey-colored hair and a baby face, his eyes bright and blue.

            “I’m Courfeyrac,” grinned, exposing a gap between his two front teeth. On anyone else, Jehan would have thought it strange, but it seemed to suit Courfeyrac well. “This is Cosette, and her hubby Marius,” Combeferre continued, indicating a young woman with mahogany hair pulled into a neat ponytail at the back of her head. Beside her stood a young man with wildly red hair, far brighter than Jehan’s own, with a galaxy of freckles on his rosy face, helping Cosette with her easel.

            “And the tall fellow in the corner is Grantaire!” Combeferre finished.

            “We have met,” Grantaire’s deep voice rumbled in reply. He sharpened a pencil with a knife, offering Jehan a quiet smile. Grantaire didn’t seem to speak much, besides to Enjolras.

            “Well that is nearly everyone, then, besides Joly and Feuilly, but you have met them as well, I believe,” Combeferre added. “Are you ready to begin?” he smiled, and Jehan took another look around the room. Everyone was in a circle around the central model stand, all perfectly poised to stare him up and down for hours on end, getting to know every detail, every scratch and scar and abnormality of his broken body, no doubt passing judgment, making assumptions that were probably correct. He sighed heavily and stood, taking a deep, shaky breath before tugging his shirt over his head, hesitating with his trousers, squeezing his eyes shut, playing with the waistband.

            “You may leave them on,” Courfeyrac’s kind, smooth voice pulling Jehan’s attention. He looked up.

            “Sorry?” he replied, confused.

            “You may leave them on, if you’d like. It is only your first day! I would be nervous!” he chuckled.

            “Are—I mean, you’re sure? I know Enjolras—”

            “You are not Enjolras. Do whatever makes you most comfortable.” He added. Jehan looked at the others, all of them seeming to smile in agreement, even Grantaire, sitting farthest away, back in the corner.

            “Oh. Alright, then…Thank you,” Jehan said, returning a meek grin. “What am I to do now?” he asked, unsure. He had walked past the studio while Enjolras was modeling, and had seen the poses he assumed—most of them simple, perhaps mimicking a posture assumed in a famous painting, but Jehan had no knowledge of those things.

            “How long can you hold a pose?” Combeferre asked.

            “A long while, I suppose…” Jehan guessed. He had never tried staying still for any extended period, but how difficult could it be?

            “Very good! Then do whatever you please, just be sure you can hold it for a while,” Jehan nodded, and took a seemingly comfortable position, one leg stretched straight, the other supporting the weight of his body. He positioned one hand on his hip, and placed the other to his chest.

            “Beautiful, dear,” Cosette assured him from behind his back. It was unnerving, to have half the room looking at him from behind, but he pushed the thought away, instead concentrating on holding the pose. He watched as the artists did their work, all of them seeming to use a different method. Combeferre held up his pencil very often, turning it side to side, closing one eye, then the other, measuring angles for a very long time before drawing anything at all on his paper. Courfeyrac was much the opposite, only gazing up shortly before creating sweeping lines, his stick of charcoal making a joyous squeak every now and again. Marius and Cosette, though he could only see them out of the corner of his eye, had a different method. Cosette drew what appeared to be a series of circles, judging by the motion of her arm and hand. Marius drew briefly, then took three steps back, gazing quickly between his drawing and back up to Jehan, comparing them closely. Grantaire took thinks more slowly, taking the first few minutes to simply stare Jehan, which he found unnerving at first, but noticed a few minutes in that he was not so much staring, but studying. He was looking at Jehan the way one would gaze at a view of the ocean, or contemplate the Eiffel Tower. He detached all meaning, all assumption, and simply meditated on shapes and lines. Jehan was no longer a living, breathing being, but a still life object, a vase, a flower. For once in his life, Jehan was glad to be itemized.

            After about fifteen minutes, Jehan was realizing this was going to be much harder than originally anticipated. His weight bearing foot became sore, and the arm he had bent close to his body was becoming numb. He sighed in an attempt to calm himself, fearful of punishment should he move. Everyone seemed so engrossed in their work, he did not want to interrupt them.

            Another ten minutes passed, and Jehan was becoming distressed. His legs shook, and he had a horrible itch on his nose he attempted to relieve by scrunching his face into unusual shapes. But still, nobody seemed to pay him much attention, looking up at him only briefly between pencil lines. He was becoming truly miserable when his eyes met Grantaire’s.

            “We should take a break,” he said. Though he spoke quietly, his voice seemed to boom in the silence.

            “Yes, alright,” Marius said, stepping back from his easel and giving his arms a shake. Courfeyrac stood from his drawing horse, and Combeferre left the room for a moment. Grantaire slid off his stool. Jehan thought he might cry. Everyone was standing and stretching or sitting and relaxing, and he had to stay put! What was he going to d—”

            “You may move, Jehan,” Grantaire said with a chuckle. “Just let me draw a line around your feet,” he traced Jehan’s foot on the paper covering the model stand. He sat down, relieved, swinging his arms and legs, circulation returning to his limbs.

            “Thank you,” he said in a sigh.

            “If you need to stop, you only have to say so,” Grantaire said as the others left the room, chatting, discussing their drawings, fetching glasses of water.

            “I wouldn’t want to ruin anybody’s concentration,” he replied, swinging his legs. Grantaire sat beside him.

            “As long as you assume the same position after your break, it does not matter much to us. We are indebted to you. Without you and Enjolras, our work would be greatly restricted. The figure is difficult to make convincing without a model.”

            “Oh…I see,” he replied, looking to his lap. Grantaire’s eyes were unnerving. They were dark, so dark it was impossible to discern his irises from his pupils, creating great, black voids. Jehan wasn’t sure how anyone was able to hold his gaze.

            “I’m going to check on Enjolras,” he said, standing. “Can I get you anything? A glass of water?”

            “That would be lovely, thank you,” Jehan replied with a smile. He left the room, leaving Jehan alone, bathed in the warm sunlight from the windows all around him. To his surprise, he was…happy. Everyone was so kind. He had not known such kindness before. He was sure his grandmother had been an angel, unusually gentle and caring, so different from the rest of the cold world. But these people, these artists who called this place home, were restoring his faith in the human race. He could be cared for. He could be loved.


	5. Chapter 5

After a few hours of drawing, Grantaire packed up his things and headed back upstairs into Enjolras’ room, where he found him asleep in his bed. He smiled, simply watching as his back rose and fell with his steady breath—Enjolras always slept on his stomach. He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing Enjolras’ bare back as he slept, grinning when his eyes fluttered open.

            “Hello, Sunshine,” he whispered. Enjolras smiled brightly, sitting up. “Feeling better?”

            “Much better, thank you. What time is it?” he asked.

            “Three,”

            “You’re finished drawing?”

            “I am,”

            “But why?”

            “I wished he was you,” he leaned over and kissed the bridge of Enjolras’ nose, then his cheek, then his lips. Enjolras leaned against his chest, still just a touch dizzy, and ran his slender hand up and down Grantaire’s chest.

            “You will have to learn to draw without me,” he replied as Grantaire’ held him close. “I’m sure Jehan will be taking over some of my hours,”

            “well that’s even better,” he nuzzled Enjolras’ nose. “More private sessions for me,” he kissed him again, inhaling his soft, cottony scent. Enjolras leaned back, taking Grantaire with him, tugging off his shirt gently before tossing it to the floor. He grinned as his artist gazed down at him with his deep, dark eyes.

            Where Enjolras was smooth and pale, Grantaire was rough and tanned, his skin a fawn-y sun-kissed tone. His hair was thick and black, curly and wiry, and it was not restricted to his head. Enjolras’ favorite part of Grantaire was his chest, taught and strong, covered in a layer of dark hair much the opposite from his own smooth midsection. If opposites attract, Enjolras and Grantaire were a prime example.

            “You’re beautiful, did you know that?” Grantaire cooed, his breath hot against Enjolras’ ear. He looped his arms around the artist’s neck, pulling him close.

            “You’ve told me so before,” he replied as Grantaire’s hand wondered downwards, making quick work of his trousers, his own following shortly.

            “Well it is true. Why you spend your time with a brute like me is beyond my comprehension,” he got to work, eliciting a contented hum from Enjolras, who threw his head back. “But I am glad that you do,” he continued, and Enjolras’ contented hum took on a different tone. Grantaire smiled.

            “Hush, it’s the middle of the day!” he hissed, jokingly.

            “And who’s fault is that?” he tossed back.

            “Do you ever stop talking?” Grantaire asked, but Enjolras couldn’t answer, for his lips were occupied in a kiss.

 

—o0o—

 

            “How long have Enjolras and Grantaire been…involved?”

            “Who told you they were involved?” Courfeyrac replied, folding his easel. He grinned cheekily and Jehan smiled, swinging his legs off the model stand. The others had gone, but Courfeyrac stayed back, stating he wished to introduce himself properly to their new model. They had been speaking for quite a few minutes when there was an unmistakable holler from directly upstairs—Enjolras’ bedroom.

            “nobody,” Jehan replied. Courfeyrac laughed “Well…it isn’t difficult to tell. They do not hide it very well.”

            “Yes, we all know, but for whatever reason, they never speak of their relations outside of their private spaces. Enjolras is quite vocal, though,” another shout rang from upstairs. “We are all well aware of their relationship. They’ve been at it almost as long as Enjolras has been here,”

            “How long has he been here?” Jehan asked.

            “A few years, now…His mother and father disowned him after they caught him with—”

            “Yes he told me,” Jehan broke in. He felt terribly for Enjolras’ misfortune, and did not wish to hear the story again.

            “He did? My goodness, he must feel at ease with you. You’ve gotten more information out of him in a week than I have in three years!”

            “You’ve been here for three years?”

            “No, five. Enjolras has been here three years. He’s only 23,”

            “I am only 21!”

            “You are a baby!” Courfeyrac laughed.

            “And how old are you, then?”

            “twenty-seven. Combeferre is 29,”

            “Combeferre is the one with the glasses, yes?”

            “That is he!” Courfeyrac’s rosy skin blushed, and his smile beamed like the sun. Jehan chuckled.

            “You are in love,” he said sweetly. Courfeyrac’s blush deepened, and his smile wavered.

            “He does not love me,” he replied, pushing a lock of his honey-colored hair behind his ear.

            “How can you be so sure?”

            “How can _you_ be so sure I am in love with him?” he tossed back, his contagious smile returning, Jehan grinning at the gap between his teeth.

            “Because you speak so fondly of him. You always put your easel beside his. Your cheeks get rosy when you talk about him,”

            “It doesn’t matter,” Courfeyrac continued. “He does not reciprocate my feelings, I know it for sure,”

            “Well that is a shame,” Jehan replied, leaning his head against Courfeyrac’s side with a sigh.

            “It is my fault,” he continued, looking to his lap.

            “Why is that?”

            “I bring…people back here. Quite often,”

            “Call girls?” Jehan asked, suddenly lifting his head, hoping he didn’t say yes. If he did, he would no longer be able to look at Courfeyrac with any sort of respect. Jehan had lived that life. It was a life marred by torture, and if Courfeyrac paid into that life, he was no longer deserving of respect, for he had withheld it from others in a most disgusting way.

            “No of course not,” he replied, much to Jehan’s relief. “Girls, yes, but never against their wishes…Men, too, sometimes…” he admitted. “I wished to make him jealous, Combeferre, I mean, but he seemed disinterested. I have not brought anybody back here in a long while,”

            “Oh…Perhaps you should tell him. Tell him the way you feel, and perhaps…” he shrugged.

            “I am too frightened,” he replied with a meek sort of smile. “I see him every single day. It would be miserable if he refused,”

            “Write him a letter, then. Or a poem. If he does not reciprocate, he will say nothing and act as if he never received it. You will not have to say anything at all,”

            “I can paint, but I cannot write. Not at all,”

            “You do not know how?” Jehan asked, concerned. He had gone to school until his grandmother’s death, and read books incessantly afterwards. He couldn’t imagine his life without reading or writing. At times, they were his only salvation.

            “It is not that I cannot,” he explained, “I have something called dyslexia. Do you know of it?” Jehan shook his head, concerned. Was he ill? “Letters and numbers float about on the page. I cannot read them, and it takes me a very long time to write anything besides my name. That is why I am here. I could not go to university, and I am quite terrible at nearly everything else. And Combeferre is so wonderfully intelligent, he would only think me an idiot should he read my writing,” Jehan thought for a minute, then smiled.

            “I could write it for you,” Courfeyrac beamed.

            Jehan had always loved to write. He was not especially good at drawing with a pencil or pen, but the pieces he created with words were truly a sight to behold. He could create a world with text the way an artist would with a brush, delicate, detailed, full of feeling and color and light. His grandmother used to encourage him, telling him he would someday be a real poet, with his works published in books and read in schools. That everyone would know his name and what beautiful words he spun with his pen.

            His dreams had been all but destroyed, his life taking a twist that he could not possibly return from, but perhaps he could still make use of his gift. If he could make Courfeyrac happy, he would be so very glad. He would not have wasted his talent.

            “Would you?” Courfeyrac gushed, unable to contain his joy. He took Jehan’s hands and held them tight.

            “I will try!” he replied with a light laugh.

            “Oh thank you, my friend, thank you so much!”

            “Don’t thank me yet!” he replied, “I haven’t done anything!”

            “Just caring enough to say that you would is deserving of thanks, Jehan. But please start soon! I am so excited!” Jehan smiled and stood, pulling his shirt back over his head.

            “I will. I will start right now,” he promised, leaving the room quickly and quietly, leaving Courfeyrac alone in the sunny studio, grinning from ear to ear.

 

—o0o—

 

Jehan knocked on Courfeyrac’s bedroom door less than an hour later, a poem written on a small piece of notebook paper in his hands. Courfeyrac smiled and met him at the door, and Jehan handed him the letter. He turned it over in his hands, studying it for a long moment before handing it back to Jehan.

            “It is perfect,” he said with a sparkle in his eyes. “Would you read it to me?” Jehan chuckled.

            “How do you know it is perfect if you did not read it yet?”

            “I can tell!” he joked back. “But please read it to me!”

            “Yes, I will,” he smiled.

 

_There is little else to say_

_Besides this single thing_

_That you have lit my life_

_You have made my heartstrings sing_

_From the moment that I wake_

_Till I close my eyes and sleep_

_I think of you and know_

_That I am yours to keep_

_Sometimes I make it difficult_

_To see my heart is true_

_But know for sure, from this moment on_

_I was meant to be with you._

_Please take this note and read it,_

_Keep it close, forever_

_And know that when you do,_

_We were meant to be together_

_Yours most lovingly,_

_Courfeyrac._

 

He recited. When he looked up, he found tears in Courfeyrac’s eyes, and frowned. Had he done something wrong? Was it terrible? But his mind was put at ease when Courfeyrac hugged him tight.

            “Thank you, Jehan. It really is perfect,” Jehan smiled and handed him the note. He took it, and Jehan followed as he pushed it under Combeferre’s bedroom door.

 

 

 

~I am so sorry I am awful at poetry I honestly should have just skipped that part it's pretty sad honestly.  Leave a comment!


	6. Chapter 6

Jehan met Eponine for the first time at dinner that night. He sat beside Enjolras in one of the modernist chairs Eponine had made out in the woodshop in the back yard. He had heard quite a bit about her, how her parents were in prison for gang violence and armed robbery, how she had studied at the Bauhaus in Germany, and how she typically kept to herself. He had also heard of her fiery temper and her quickness to love.

            Cosette and Grantaire typically cooked dinner for the household, seeing as Grantaire’s father was a chef and Cosette simply enjoyed cooking. Eponine was not at the table when the two entered the dining room, Grantaire carrying platters: one with toasted pita bread circling a bowl of something Jehan had never seen before, the other piled with what appeared to be meat on skewers, something else Jehan had never tasted and did not know what to call. Cosette held a big bowl filled with tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, and olives, a slab of feta cheese on top, smothered in olive oil. The final plate contained yet more sliced tomatoes, as well as fried potatoes.

            “What’s with all the Greek food, R?” Bahorel, one of the artists Jehan was not yet well acquainted with, said with a smile.

            “Not that anybody’s complaining,” Feuilly added with a grin, taking two skewers and setting them on his plate, waiting for the rest of the platters to be placed down so he could dig in.

            “It’s Pentecost Monday, you heathens!” he replied, taking Enjolras’ plate and filling it for him, placing it down.

            “Gyro?” Enjolras asked with a smile. Grantaire placed a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder and shook his head in joking exasperation.

            “First of all, it’s ‘g-dee ROS’, not ‘JY-ro’. Second, this is souvlaki. You, sir, are a disgrace,” everyone chuckled at Grantaire’s sarcasm, even Jehan, who had no idea what he was talking about.

            “What is all this?” Jehan asked tentatively. Grantaire was typically sarcastic and gruff, and Jehan sometimes had trouble discerning when he was serious. “I’ve never had any of these foods before,”

            “Really? I suppose you wouldn’t have,” he shrugged. “If you have not already gathered, I am very Greek. This is all Greek food,” he said with a smile, seeming proud to explain his culture. “This is only pork on a skewer, called _souvlaki_ ,” he made a face at Enjolras, who smiled meekly. “This is pita bread. Some people take the souvlaki off the skewer and eat it like a sandwich with the bread. That’s almost like a gyro, but gyro is shaved lamb meat which I do not currently have the means to make, but we’re working on it,” he grinned. “This is just a Greek salad with tomatoes and peppers and cucumbers and olives, and these are French fried potatoes, which I do hope you are familiar with,” He took Jehan’s dish and loaded it with food as well, placing it in front of Jehan, who smiled. Never before had he been served so much food all at once, and in such a variety of colors and textures. It was truly an experience, for him, anyway.

            “And this?” Jehan asked, pointing to a white creamy sauce Grantaire had spooned onto the corner of his dish. “What is this one?”

            “That is called tzatziki,” he explained. “It’s yoghurt, cucumbers, oil, vinegar, and an obscene amount of garlic,” he sat down, then, just beside Enjolras, and returned to his gruff, stoic, sensibility. Jehan eagerly tried everything, finding it exotic and different, but very agreeable. He smiled, glancing up as someone new entered the room—Someone who could only be Eponine.

            She was pretty, in an unconventional sort of way, with a full face and a head full of kinky hair. She was the picture of the post-modern woman, her clothing simple and functional, like what she had made for Jehan. She was of fuller build, and entered in bare feet, which Jehan found simply enchanting. In fact, he found most things about Eponine enchanting, from her feathery black hair to her deep dark eyes. She sat silently, and smiled when Courfeyrac passed her the platter of souvlaki. She looked up and smiled at Jehan, who gave a wave in reply.

            “You’re the new model,” she said. Jehan nodded in reply. “I’m Eponine. Nice to finally meet you!”

            “It’s good to meet you, too,” he replied.

            “I don’t use a model much for my work…I make…things…not so much paintings or drawings. A little different,”

            “Well I am very glad you made me clothes,” she smiled.

            “Any time,” Jehan grinned. Her voice was soft, but not quiet, and rolled like stones in a river current. “Just ask if you need anything. I can make other things, too. Furniture, fabrics, pottery…” she listed. Jehan was amazed. Eponine was truly a jack of all trades, and very talented in most all of them.

            “Thank you,” he said again, “I will help, if I can!”

 

—o0o—

 

After dinner, everyone helped with the dishes and went on their way. Jehan couldn’t help but smile when he saw Combeferre take Courfeyrac’s hand and accompany him out to the garden. Courfeyrac turned and gave Jehan a smile as he went.

            He was about to leave himself when Grantaire grabbed Jehan’s shoulder. He turned around, startled.

            “Would you come into my studio? Just for a second, I wanted to finish the drawing I was doing earlier, if you don’t mind,” he said.

            “Oh…Sure…” Jehan replied tentatively. Enjolras left the kitchen, entering the dining room behind Grantaire’s back. Jehan saw him bow his eyebrows, clearly put off. He left the room quietly, heading upstairs.

            “Good,” Grantaire said, heading to his studio.

            “You mean now?” Jehan asked, unsure. It was nearly seven at night…He was looking forward to a bubble bath and perhaps an evening chatting with Enjolras in his bedroom, how they usually spent their evenings.

            “Yes, now,” Grantaire replied in his usual gruff manner. He held open the door to his studio.

            Jehan had never really been inside Grantaire’s studio before, and had only seen inside one time through a crack in the door. It was much the same as it appeared then, with art supplies strewn about, paper and un-stretched canvas laying limply on the floor. Finished paintings leaned against the walls, abandoned, unfinished works lay in the corner. In the far corner of the room sat a phonograph with a large trumpet, a stack of records beside it. In the center of the floor was an old, antique sofa, upholstered in light blue, and a single easel, set low to the ground. On it was the unfinished drawing of Jehan, and he couldn’t help but gaze at it in wonder.

            “This is me,” he said, almost more of a question than a statement.

            “Can you not tell? Is it that terrible?” Grantaire replied with a chuckle.

            “No. No it is beautiful. You have made me look like an angel,” he ran a gentle hand over the drawing, down his own torso, the tone of the earthy pencil flawless, every freckle in place, except for his legs, which were unfinished and still only drawn in as loose shapes. “I cannot imagine what your drawings of Enjolras must look like,” he added.

            “What do you mean?” Grantaire asked with a cheeky grin.

            “He is _really_ beautiful…He looks like an angel all the time…I do not, but you have made me one anyhow,”

            “Well…have a look, I suppose,” he dug through a stack of drawings in the corner, pulling some of them out and handing them to Jehan, who flipped through the large sheets of paper. Each of them depicted Enjolras in any number of positions, some of them simple, obviously done for the group of artists, others more unusual, some borderline erotic, that Grantaire had probably done in the privacy of his studio. In fact, some of the drawings were drawn of Enjolras seated on the sofa.

            “You love him,” Jehan said with a smile, gazing at one of the delicate drawings, noting the care taken with each pencil line, each mark careful and precise.

            “I do,” he replied simply, taking the drawings and stashing them away again, closing the lid on the great wooden trunk they were kept inside. “I have not said it out loud to anybody besides him. You have a certain way with people, Prouvaire,”

            “What do you mean?” Jehan asked, pulling his shirt off over his head and re-assuming the pose he had been in earlier that day, so that Grantaire might finish his drawing. He sat down at his easel, right on the hardwood floor, and began his work.

            “You are easy to talk to. I hardly know you, and yet I do not feel hesitant to tell you of my private dealings. It is strange,”

            “I would not tell anybody,”

            “I do not worry over that,” he chuckled. “Everyone knows already, about Enjolras and I. He acts as if he does not realize they know, but he is very clever. I’m not sure why we keep things so quiet,” Jehan giggled. Enjolras was anything but quiet. Grantaire smiled. “You know what I mean! We do not express our feelings outside of our private quarters, while the others do so freely. Marius and Cosette are always arm in arm, Eponine fancies Marius as well, anyone who’s seen her alone with him would know. Courfeyrac has been trying to court Combeferre for who knows how long, though judging by our evening meal, it seems he has finally succeeded. But Enjolras wishes to keep things under wraps,”

            “Does it bother you?” Jehan asked, holding still. Grantaire continued working quietly, looking up and back to his piece constantly.

            “It does not,” he replied simply, as was his way. I am not difficult to please. I would love him just the same if he hung on me all hours of the day, just as I love him now,”

            Grantaire worked in silence for just shy of an hour before releasing Jehan for the night, freeing him for his bubble bath. Grantaire, too, headed upstairs, knocking at Enjolras’ bedroom door, puzzled when he did not come to answer it. He turned the knob and let himself in, finding Enjolras laying in bed, reading a book and wearing his glasses—something he never did outside of his bedroom.

            “I like your glasses,” Grantaire purred, leaning against the doorframe.

            “Hm,” Enjolras replied, more or less ignoring him. Grantaire furrowed his thick eyebrows.

            “What is the matter?” he asked, kneeling on the bed before crawling to Enjolras, who was facing away. He kissed his neck, but Enjolras pushed him away. “Enjolras,”

            “Nobody has ever been allowed into your studio before, R. Not even Montparnasse. Only you and I,” he explained, keeping his eyes on the text.

            “Enjolras, don’t be silly. I only wanted to finish my drawing,”

            “I could have done it,”

            “You’re always dizzy at night—”

            “I’m too dizzy to model but not too dizzy for you to fuck me into the mattress?” he tossed back, finally turning to look Grantaire in the eye.

            “That isn’t true,”

            “Then why did you come in here?”

            “Perhaps I enjoy spending time with you,”

            “Clearly you do not find much joy, if you would rather Prouvaire model for you than me,”

            “The drawing was started with him, it needed to be finished with him,”

            “I could have done it,” he said again, his creamy skin flushed red.

            “You couldn’t have!” Grantaire tossed back. Enjolras’ mouth hung open, and he pulled his hand back, ready to deal a slap, but Grantaire grabbed his wrist. “You are far too pristine. The difference would have been obvious. The legs of a god on the body of a mere mortal,” he smiled, his deep voice creamy and suave. Enjolras sighed and softened, looking up to Grantaire with a tiny smile.

            “You are lucky,” he said, “Somehow you manage to talk your way off my nerves,”

            “Would you allow me to ease them further?” he asked, gently removing Enjolras’ wire-rimmed glasses and placing them on the bedside table.

            “Perhaps,” he replied, “but I am still angry with you,”

            “What would you have me do?”

            “Kiss me,” he smiled. Grantaire was eager to oblige.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~WARNING~  
> this chapter is somewhat explicit. Jehan walks in on Enjolras and Grantaire in bed. Not to spoil anything, but I felt the need to include some sort of warning. It is plot related, and I have never written anything explicit before, so I tried to keep things classy. Just a quick warning! I hope you're enjoying the story! Please comment suggestions, as this is my first time writing a love scene!

“Good morning, Apollo,” Grantaire whispered, nuzzling Enjolras’ neck from where he lay behind him, acting as big spoon to Enjolras’ little. The model hummed and craned his neck, reaching up and around Grantaire’s head and scratching gently at his scalp.

            “Good morning, my darling,” he replied groggily. Enjolras was not an early riser, and would have slept another hour at least if allowed. 8:30 was far too early.

            “You’re beautiful when you’re sleepy,” he added, nibbling at his ear, eliciting a smile. Enjolras rolled over to face his artist, combing his fingers through his thick, dark hair.

            “I love you,”

            “And I you,”

            “I suppose I should get up now, shouldn’t I?” he sat up, pulling the tie from his golden hair, shaking out his curls, and re-tying it tighter as Grantaire watched the way his shoulder blades glided over his back, muscle and bone merging and moving effortlessly as his arms raised above his head. “I have to wash the sheets,” he turned and tossed Grantaire an expression of mock exasperation. Grantaire chuckled, crawling around Enjolras, over the duvet. He took Enjolras’ shoulder in one of his large, dexterous hands, and leaned him back down, his curls splayed out over the pillow like a golden halo.

            “Stay with me a bit longer,” he said softly, lowering his body and pressing a kiss to Enjolras’ smooth lips, pulling away after a moment, only to have the model crane his neck, continuing their kiss fervently. Grantaire did not protest, and instead parted his lips with his tongue, something that always made Enjolras smile.

            When both were breathless, he moved down Enjolras’ jaw, then down his neck, the model’s pale fingers still tangled in his wiry locks.

            He allowed his mouth a moment of exploration when he reached Enjolras’ clavicles, nuzzling them with his nose, kissing, licking, biting gently. It was no secret Grantaire had a fascination with the collarbones. He found them simply enchanting, and would often paint them just for fun, Enjolras’ or from his imagination. He even had a habit of running his fingers over his own, when he was deep in thought or antsy.

            His hands massaged Enjolras’ smooth pectorals, his thumbs rubbing teasingly, tracing circles around where Enjolras really wanted them. His breathing was coming heavily, and Grantaire smiled at his whimpers.

            “What do you want, Apollo?” he asked suavely, pressing his slightly-too-large nose against Enjolras’ porcelain cheek.

            “You,” he replied breathlessly, hooking his arms around Grantaire’s strong neck, scratching at the top of his back, how he liked.

            “So early?” Grantaire replied jokingly. Enjolras smiled, a warm blush spreading across his dream-struck face.

            “Someone has to wake me up. And rather make a mess now than _after_ I clean the sheets,” he added, his bright eyes half-lidded, excited, but relaxed, wanting, yet content. Grantaire knelt between Enjolras’ knees, rolling his shoulders and stretching his arms. He really didn’t need to, but he wanted to put himself on display for his lover.

            Grantaire was just shy of 6 foot 10 inches, with broad shoulders and a muscular midsection Enjolras quite envied. His pectorals were covered in thick hair Enjolras found quite attractive and exotic, but it was not confined to his chest. It traveled downward as well, down the center of his abdominal muscle in a thin line before spreading again.

            As a model, Enjolras knew it was more desirable for the artists to be able to see his entire form clearly. Because of this, he kept himself well groomed, his face, legs, and underarms hairless, the rest kept trimmed and tidy. Grantaire did not have to worry himself over such things, and was much the opposite. He was originally self conscious, until Enjolras admitted how much he enjoyed tugging at the hair on his chest and raking his fingers through the rest. Grantaire couldn’t help the hitch in his breathing whenever he thought about it.

            The other reason Grantaire stretched before Enjolras was to see the rosy blush that bloomed on Enjolras’ face when he beheld his arousal. Enjolras was a small person, standing only 5’6, and his body matched his height. He wasn’t _small_ , per say, but he was nowhere near as large as Grantaire, who could easily be described as intimidating. Though they coupled often, Enjolras couldn’t help the twang of nervousness followed by a blush when he saw Grantaire, ready to join with him, knowing what was coming, knowing what it would feel like when he did.

            Grantaire reached across Enjolras, over his petite body, and into the night table drawer, retrieving something to ease the way, slicking himself before guiding himself to Enjolras carefully, slowly, the way he knew Enjolras most enjoyed. The model wrapped his long, pale legs around Grantaire’s waist.

 

Not a moment later, there was a knock at the door, and they both groaned, exasperated, falling still.

            “What?!” Grantaire called in his booming voice.

            “Is Enjolras there?” a tiny voice asked. Grantaire rolled his eyes, looking to Enjolras, who was hardly breathing, lost to the throws of passion.

            “Yes,” he replied, softer than Grantaire, realizing it was Prouvaire on the other side of the door.

            “Oh good! I just wanted to—” he pushed the door open.

            “No! no, no!” Enjolras and Grantaire both babbled incoherently, trying to cover themselves without completely ruining the moment. But it was far too late. Jehan had seen everything, and was frozen in the doorway, his lip trembling, his eyes shining with tears. He turned and slammed the door, his hurried footsteps audible as he ran. A loud sob followed by a door slam concerned Enjolras greatly, and he looked to Grantaire, who seemed uncaring.

            “I have to go speak to him,” Enjolras said sadly.

            “Why? He’s twenty! He’s a grown man, surely he’s—”

            “Nobody told you, did they?” Enjolras sat up, much to Grantaire’s dismay. The mood was gone, but he was still in need of release.

            “Just give me a second,” he grumbled gruffly, heading to the bathroom and returning a moment later, scooping up his trousers and pulling them back on before sitting down again on the bed.

            “Feuilly found him half dead in town, bleeding out from an assault after a man raped him in an alley. His mother forced him into prostitution to pay for her lifestyle while she went out to parties. Seeing us probably brought back…bad memories…” he explained. Grantaire suddenly fell silent, solemn and sad.

            “I’m sorry. I didn’t know,”

            “I know. It isn’t your fault. If I’m completely honest, that’s why I was a bit nervous last night…I wasn’t quite sure how he felt about things, and I thought maybe…maybe he—”

            “Attempted to woo me?” Enjolras nodded and looked away, ashamed.

            “I shouldn’t have thought that,” he said, “I would never think that of him, had it not been with you. I just…I get nervous. You’re just so handsome,” he smiled, taking Grantaire’s face in his hands and giving him an Eskimo kiss, rubbing their noses together gently.

            “If we’re being completely honest, I kicked Bahorel’s ass the first week you were here because he kept asking you for private modeling sessions,” Grantaire grinned. Enjolras laughed lightly before swinging his legs over the side of the bed, opening his drawer and retrieving a fresh pair of pants and a clean shirt, fastening his favorite red suspenders.

            “I haven’t seen you really dressed in quite a while, now that I think about it,” Grantaire noted with a chuckle. It was true, after all. Enjolras was nearly always modeling for someone, and wore almost exclusively one of his many silk robes, sometimes they only hung around his waist. He really hadn’t needed to wear anything other than that for probably a week, or whenever he last left the colony.

            “I didn’t think Prouvaire would appreciate seeing much more of me after…this…” he shrugged. “I may take him into town for a little break…It’s our day off,” he explained. The models were allowed Saturdays off, giving them time for frivolities and day trips. Because the models were typically unavailable, most of the others took off as well, spending the day in town or by the ocean or exploring the lavender fields. Provence was beautiful, and some, Courfeyrac and Bossuet, mostly, often too the opportunity to paint _plein aire_ pieces for a bit of extra money. Landscapes were easy to sell. Combeferre, Eponine, Marius, and Cosette sometimes brought a table and umbrella into town to sell small pieces to tourists who came through town, and were typically successful. It was a day meant for fun, and Enjolras hoped Jehan’s day off hadn’t been ruined.

            “Alright,” Grantaire said with a nod, collecting his things from the floor. “I’ve got nothing to do…I’ll take care of your sheets while you take care of Prouvaire,” he smiled.

            “You really should,” Enjolras tossed back. “It is _your fault_ , after all,” he smirked.

            “Get out, before I change my mind!” he barked jokingly.

            “Excuse me, monsieur, but _you_ are in _my_ bedroom, not the other way around!” he laughed as he left the room, leaving Grantaire chuckling, the sheets in his arms.

 

Enjolras knocked on Jehan’s door softly, pressing his ear to the wood. He was alarmed when he heard crying from inside, and turned the knob slowly.

            “Jehan?” he asked through the crack, not wanting to intrude.

            “Yes?” he squeaked. Enjolras looked around the door and found Jehan sitting in a ball on his bed, pressed into the corner.

            “I’m so sorry, Jehan. I didn’t mean—”

            “It’s alright…It was my fault, I shouldn’t have come in like that,” he replied meekly.

            “I am still sorry it upset you,” he sat on the edge of the bed, and opened his arms. Jehan returned the embrace with a small smile.

            “Would you like to take a walk into town with me today? Perhaps some of the others will come too,”

            “I think I would like that,” he said, though he was frightened. What if he saw someone he knew? What if someone recognized him? What if he saw his mother?

            “I’ll see if Bahorel wants to come,” Enjolras stated, as if hearing Jehan’s thoughts. “He’ll make sure you’re kept safe,” he smiled, and Jehan nodded.


	8. Chapter 8

Jehan tied his hair in a knot on top of his head, and borrowed one of Bossuet’s caps, effectively hiding his fiery locks: his most recognizable characteristic. Though he loved his long hair dearly, he knew it stood out for its length and its color, and that his past might spot it and return. He also slipped on a plain shirt Eponine had made for him, along with a bland pair of slacks and suspenders. Before he was brought to the art colony, and even after arriving, he favored loud patterns and colors, but it was only another way someone could pick him out of a crowd. He knew he couldn’t let that happen. He had to look as different as he possibly could, even punching the lenses out of an old pair of Enjolras’ glasses to further obscure himself.

            He met Enjolras downstairs in the large foyer room when he was ready, and found him sitting with Bahorel, as he said he would be.

            Jehan was terribly shy, even with the members of the colony. He didn’t know all of them as well as he would have liked. Courfeyrac, Joly, Enjolras, and Grantaire by his association with Enjolras were really the only members of the household he had spoken with extensively. Everyone else still seemed like an acquaintance. Bahorel was one of those people.

            Enjolras had joked Bahorel would make sure that nobody bothered them, but Jehan knew there was also truth in the statement. Bahorel was most certainly intimidating. Most obviously, he was tall, almost as tall as Grantaire. But Grantaire, though toned, was trim. Bahorel was broad as well as tall, with massive shoulders and muscular arms. He was a sculptor of stone, and his medium made him strong. He weighed more than Jehan and Enjolras combined, which was no great feat, as they were both quite small, but he seemed huge, especially beside the two tiny models.

            “Ready to go?” Enjolras asked, standing with a smile from the sofa in the middle of the foyer. Bahorel stood as well, rolling his shoulders. His vest looked just a tad tight across his chest, but he grinned, nonetheless.

            “Yes, I think so,” he replied meekly.

            “We won’t be long. Grantaire asked me to pick up a few things, but besides that, we’ve nothing to do,”

            “I was hoping to stop at the package store,” Bahorel added.

            “Just keep it away from Grantaire,” Enjolras added under his breath.

            “Does it make him ill?” Jehan asked as they began their walk, away from the seclusion and safety of the home, back out into the world.

            “He is an intolerable lush when allowed to be,” Enjolras explained. “I suppose one could call it an illness. It cripples him, at times, his need for it. Once he starts it is near impossible to get him to stop,”

            “We no longer serve any wine or spirit at our gallery openings because of it,” Bahorel added. “The last time we did, he downed nearly an entire handle of whiskey. The scary thing was he hardly batted an eye,”

            “Oh yes, I do not doubt Grantaire could out-drink Dionysus himself, if given the chance,” Enjolras sighed.

            “It is upsetting to you,” Jehan noted, looking to Enjolras. Bahorel remained quiet, for the time being, pushing his hands into his pockets.

            “Very,” Enjolras replied. “He is a different person when he is drinking. That is why I make sure he never has any. He cannot control himself, so I have to,”

            “But do not worry over Enjolras, Jehan,” Bahorel said with a smile, returning to the conversation. “He gets plenty in return,” he smirked, and Enjolras tossed him a glare. Jehan chuckled.

            “Do not tell him that you know,” Enjolras continued after a moment. “He is horribly ashamed. He thinks himself an idiot for the addiction, that he cannot help himself. Most of the newer members of the house do not know,”

            “I will not say anything,” Jehan promised. He was a very good listener, and a safe for secrets.

 

The walk from the colony started out pleasant enough, the road rolling fields on one side, and a green wood on the other, and Jehan was at ease. But once the town came into view, he became uneasy again.

            Though only a suburb of Paris, the downtown was sizeable, with many streets and alleys, with bars and pubs and shops. Jehan could hear the hum before they even entered the area, horns honking from brand-new automobiles Jehan found frightening. All motor cars scared him. They were too noisy and too fast, like a great, shining beast only just controlled by its rider.

            Jehan stuck close to Enjolras, and Bahorel walked just behind them.

            “If you’d like to go back, just say so,” Enjolras assured him with a smile, playing with a loose curl.

            “Alright,” Jehan replied meekly. “Where are we going first?” He wanted to prepare himself. He would be more likely to meet someone who recognized him in bars and pubs. In fact, even the man who owned the inn on the corner had been cruel to him. The bakery wasn’t safe either…

            “There is a man who makes paintbrushes on the next street. Grantaire’s asked me to get him one. It’s just across from the package store, Bahorel, so you could stop there next.”

            “Sounds agreeable,” he smiled.

            When they reached the shop, Enjolras held the door open for Jehan. Inside, he found a gallery of countless paintings, covering every available space. There was also a work bench, covered in tools and furs, as well as finished paintbrushes standing proudly in a tin cup.

            “Monsieur LaCrouix?” Enjolras called, peering around the corner, over the workbench. An old man with a bent back and owl eyes hobbled from the back room.

            “Enjolras!” he cooed, straightening as best he could, holding his cane and offering a hand. Enjolras shook it with a smile. “And who is this?” he asked, looking to Jehan.

            “The new model,” he smiled, unsure of how Jehan wished to introduce himself.

            “I’m called Jehan,” he said after a long moment. Most people around town would know him as Jean Prouvaire, as it was far more anonymous. Jean was a common name, and Prouvaire was not unusual.

            “Well it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Jehan,” he smiled. “And I am sure Enjolras is glad for you as well. Grantaire explained your chronic spinning was acting up again,”

            “Yes. Most of the others in the house call me Vertigo as a term of endearment,” he grinned, and the old man laughed.

            “Well, Vertigo, what can I help you with today?”

            “Grantaire has asked for these,” he passed the man a slip of paper, covered in Grantaire’s scratchy handwriting. LaCrouix squinted.

            “You’ll need to translate for me,” he said, handing the note back to Enjolras. “I wish Grantaire would come himself more often. I cannot read his writing!”

            “Oh, Grantaire does not like coming into town. He says it’s much too noisy,” Enjolras said, though Jehan suspected the real reason was the proximity to the liquor shop. “He’s written ‘number 4 filbert, number 10 filbert, hm…” Enjolras struggled to read the next line of scrawl. “a number 14 round, and a number 16 square, all sable. On the bottom he writes ‘thank you very much, my apologies for not coming myself.’ Does his request make sense? I am not familiar with paintbrushes,” he smiled.

            “Yes of course,” the old man said, moving tools around, flinging papers about, looking through the clutter around his desk for the brushes Grantaire requested. He picked them out one by one, handing them to Enjolras as he did, until all four were accounted for.

            “What do I owe you,” Enjolras asked, pulling a wallet from his pocket.

            “The sable hair costs much more,” he replied. “Is that alright?”

            “Grantaire has assured me he was prepared to pay for the best,”

            “Very well. All four will come to 1,000 francs,” Jehan’s jaw nearly hit the floor. He had never seen 1,000 francs, much less paid for anything of such a high cost. He couldn’t image using so much money all at once, especially for goods as small as paintbrushes.

            Enjolras reached into the wallet and pulled out two 500 franc notes, handing them to the brush maker with a smile.

            “Thank you very much,” Enjolras said, running his fingers over the soft bristles.

            “Any time! Tell Grantaire to come himself the next time! I am interested in hanging one of his, if he would stoop so low as to show in my humble gallery!”

            “I am sure he would be glad to, Monsieur. I will be sure to pass along the message,”

            “It was good to meet you as well, Jehan,” he called as they left. Jehan offered a wave.

            Bahorel was sitting on the bench beside the door, a bottle in a paper bag on his lap.

            “I thought you were going for whiskey,” Enjolras said as they continued their walk. “That looks like a bottle of wine,”

            “It is champagne,” he explained, a blush spreading to his cheeks.

            “And what is the celebration?” Enjolras asked, raising an eyebrow.

            “Oh nothing, I just…I just wanted it for…things,” he babbled. Jehan smiled. He was making the same terrified, excited, humbling look Courfeyrac made when he spoke about Combeferre, the same way Grantaire blushed when he explained his love for Enjolras. Bahorel was in love, but even Jehan didn’t know who he fancied. Bahorel kept mostly to himself, besides drawing sessions, occasionally calling Enjolras to the shed in the yard he and Eponine used as a workshop to model for him, but otherwise keeping quiet.

            “What sort of things?” Enjolras asked with a smirk, standing on his toes as they walked and placing his chin on Bahorel’s shoulder briefly. Jehan stifled another laugh.

            “That is none of your business, Vertigo,” he tossed back with a grin.

            “Oh but everything is my business, Bahorel, you know I know everything. I’ll find out. You might as well tell me yourself!”

            “It is not yours to know!” they continued to joke, though there was truth in their jesting. Jehan hadn’t thought much of it before, but Enjolras did know everything about everyone. All Jehan had to do was ask and Enjolras was almost always able to answer any question he had about anybody in the house. Sometimes, he told Jehan he knew the answers but was not at liberty to forward the information, other times he would go into great detail and tell him to keep quiet about it. He supposed it was because Enjolras modeled for everyone privately, perhaps not as often as Grantaire, but often enough to know everyone very well.

            “Very well, have it your way,” Enjolras sighed, looking to Jehan and giving him a wink. “I will only find out later,” Bahorel blushed again. He knew it was true, but still said nothing, dropping the subject as they continued their walk.

            “What else did Grantaire ask for?” Jehan asked, once again sticking close to Enjolras as they drew nearer to the center of the town, where Jehan had once stood on the corner, offering himself up to fund his mother’s lavish lifestyle. He took Enjolras’ arm in his hands, like a frightened child.

            “He just wants a loaf of bread. He is an olive oil fiend, and he has to sop it up with something. Speaking of, he asked for another bottle of olive oil as well.” Bahorel snorted in laughter.

            “It is true!” he agreed.

            “I believe the Greeks have olive oil in place of blood, quite honestly,”

            “He is very Greek, then,” Jehan smiled.

            “Completely,” Enjolras replied. Jehan smiled at the humorous exchange, but grew frightened again when they came to the bakery. The baker was the man who refused him entry and left him bleeding on the sidewalk. He sighed, entering the small shop, glad Enjolras and Bahorel were with him. He wouldn’t have had the courage alone.

            “Good morning, gentlemen,” the baker said with a grin, walking up to the counter and leaning over it, curling his moustache with his fingers. “What could I do for you?” he looked to Bahorel, then Enjolras, and finally Jehan, hesitating, then straightening. “You,” his eyes narrowed, and Jehan was paralyzed with fear. “You tried to get a free loaf of bread! If you’ve come back to beg again, I’ll—”

            “He is only here with me, Monsieur,” Enjolras broke in, his gaze stony. Jehan had seen Enjolras become passionate, and though small in frame, he was formidable. Jehan couldn’t imagine him when he was angry, if he was frightening while discussing the fairness of the Paris Salon, he must be a force of nature when truly angered.

            “Forgive me, I only wish to keep my shop free of beggars,”

            “I am no beggar. I would like two loaves, as well as a bottle of your best seasoned olive oil,” he said. Bahorel stood beside Jehan, who leaned against him. The baker had recognized him so quickly and easily…He worried someone else would too.

            “Here is the bread,” the baker said, placing two loaves in paper sleeves onto the counter. “And here is the oil,” he added. Enjolras bowed his eyebrows, turning the glass bottle in his hands. “That will be fifty francs,”

            “I asked for your finest,” Enjolras said. “This is second press a best, yet you are charging me for highest quality,”

            “And how would you know?” the baker tossed back. He was a large man, and, like most men, taller than Enjolras, and yet the model did not back down.

            “I am only asking for the quality I requested,” he replied calmly. “And I believe I have every right, especially after you insulted my friend,”

            “This is the best!”

            “This is not the best. I will have that bottle, there,” he pointed to a bottle of oil on the top shelf, herbs and spices settled on the bottom, the oil crystal clear, unlike the foggy bottle in his hands.

            “You will pay more,”

            “Very well,” Enjolras pulled out the wallet again and placed the fee on the counter, another high amount Jehan could never fathom spending on oil. Enjolras took his purchase and left, followed quickly by Jehan as Bahorel gave the small of his back a comforting push, leading him away from the baker.

            “Now I know why Grantaire typically gets his own bread,” Enjolras said. “I cannot imagine that horrid baker trying to scam a renowned artist,”

            “Grantaire is well known, then?” Jehan asked. He had little experience with the fine arts before coming to the colony, and never had the money to attend shows, much less purchase anything. He had heard Grantaire’s name once or twice in passing, wealthy people speaking of the Salon and whatnot, but he was unaware of Grantaire’s true fame.

            “He is the star of the Paris Salon, which makes him extremely sought after,” Enjolras explained bitterly. “Not that he does not deserve the fame, I only wish it had come about in a different way,”

            “The Salon is stuffy,” Bahorel agreed with a shrug. “But it seems to be the only way to make oneself known,”

            “I hope other ways come about,” Enjolras added. “But anyhow, yes, when Grantaire goes out, people stop him on the sidewalk. Most everyone knows who he is. To be honest, I think it makes him uncomfortable,” he said with a chuckle. “He is not the most eloquent of individuals,”

            “But he is very sweet,” Jehan cooed. Enjolras pulled off the end of a loaf of bread, breaking it in half and offering it to Jehan and Bahorel. Both refused, and Enjolras picked at it himself.

            “He is,” Enjolras smiled. “When he wants to be,”

            “He’s gruff as a goat, if you ask me,” Bahorel said with a laugh. “He compliments no one, he allows no one into his studio, he refuses invitations out to lunch or dinner. He is like a hermit,”

            “Sometimes,” Enjolras shrugged.

            “Never to you,” Bahorel continued. “He melts like butter in the sun when you are around,”

            “He doesn’t,”

            “He is infatuated with you,”

            “He isn’t,” Enjolras blushed. Jehan smiled.

            “You must think us daft, Enjolras. We all know you and R are involved,”        

            “That is none of your business,” Enjolras replied, mocking Bahorel’s voice, mimicking him from their earlier conversation. Jehan laughed.

            “Why are you friends with him, Jehan?” Bahorel joked. Jehan shook his head, removing his hat and shaking out his hair as they approached the house once again.

            “Well I do hope that wasn’t too miserable, Jehan,” Enjolras said as they headed into the house. “I am sorry about the baker,”

            “That is alright. Perhaps I will stick to the more southern side of town next time, though,” he suggested. Enjolras smiled.

            “I am glad you came. And I hope it took your mind off of my traumatizing display this morning,” he joked, and Jehan laughed again.

            “It did. Thank you,” he replied. “I think I am ready for a nap, now, though,”

            “Then I will not keep you,” Jehan trotted up the stairs, and Enjolras readed for Grantaire’s studio door, knocking gently. Grantaire opened it just a hair, peeking out to see who was there before allowing Enjolras inside.

            “How was your trip?” he asked.

            “Fine,” Enjolras replied, placing the bread on the small table beside the sofa and handing the brushes to Grantaire. “But that baker is odious,”

            “Yes I know. But I knew you could handle him,” he smiled, shoving the handles of the brushes through the bundle of his wild hair tied atop his head and pulling Enjolras in for a kiss.

            “I could. Jehan was not so keen…He was recognized. I’m afraid he will not accompany us again. I mean to help, but I seem to keep frightening him further,”

            “He’ll come around,” Grantaire assured him, removing the brushes one by one, studying the bristles, running his fingers over them.

            “I hope he does,” Enjolras replied.

 

 

 

 

~Thanks for reading!  Leave a comment to make me happy.  Or don't.  It's fine whatever.  


	9. Chapter 9

Somebody requested the back stories of the characters, so here they are!

 

 

“Enjolras?” Jehan asked, peering around the bedroom door, his hair in a messy knot on top of his head, still wet from his bath.

            “Yes, Darling?” he replied with a smile, sitting on his bed in his pajamas. Jehan sat beside him, crisscrossing his legs and holding his ankles in his hands.

            “I was just thinking…I don’t really know much about anybody here…I mean, they’re all very sweet, but I don’t know…where they came from. Does that make sense?” he asked. He had pondered the subject for a good while. Some of the members of the household acted in ways that were strange, or exhibited bizarre habits that Jehan was sure came from some sort of past experience.

            “Oh…You could always ask them, you know,” he grinned. Jehan blushed.

            “I’m a bit nervous, to be honest…I don’t want to intrude. But I’m sure you know!” he smiled, and Enjolras laughed.

            “I could tell you, I suppose. Who would you like to hear about first?”

            “How about Grantaire?” he suggested. Enjolras shook his head with an exasperated smile.

            “Alright, I will tell you all about Grantaire,” he began.

            “He was born in Greece in 1910, making him 26, and his mother and father moved to France when he was six. His father’s mother was Greek and married a Frenchman, which is where the name comes from. ‘Grantaire’ is not Greek, as I’m sure you’ve noticed,”

            “Does he speak it? Greek, I mean,” Jehan asked.

            “He does. But he rarely uses it,” he explained with a slight blush. The only time he ever used Greek was when he was in bed with Enjolras, seeing as it was a quick way to get him in the mood. He often whispered sweet nothings in Greek, and though Enjolras didn’t know what he was saying, he found it incredibly intoxicating.

            “I wonder why,” Jehan shrugged.

            “Nobody here understands it. There is little use for it. But he always signs his name in Greek on his drawings and paintings,”

            “Well that’s interesting…”

            “It is. He is an interesting character, Grantaire. He is more talented then he lets on. He dances ballet, believe it or not, and ballroom dancing. His mother put him in classes when he was little, and he became quite good, but he decided he wished to pursue his artwork full time. His mother and father moved back to Greece, they live on the island of Rhodes, but Grantaire knew he had a better chance of becoming a recognized artist if he stayed here, so he did. He had a difficult few years after his parents moved away, though. His work was not supporting him and he became quite hopeless. That was when he began drinking. But Feuilly found one of his paintings in an old gallery and asked who it was by, and he eventually found Grantaire and asked him to help him establish the art colony. Back then it was only Feuilly, Bahorel, and Eponine, they’re the ones who started the place up,”

            “How long has it been here?” Jehan asked, wondering how he had lived so close to such a wonderful place his entire life and never knew it was there.

            “Feuilly purchased the house in…hm…1927, I believe…Grantaire joined in 1930,”

            “Feuilly bought it all on his own?”

            “Bahorel and Eponine pitched in a bit, but Feuilly was responsible for most of it. He is a very famous sculptor and makes quite a bit of money. Most everyone’s heard of him,” Jehan blushed. He, of course, had no idea. He had never been exposed to any of the fine arts as a child, and his mother could care less about how cultured her son was, and so Jehan was never told much about the art world.

            “He was orphaned as an infant in Poland, but ran away when he was four or five and eventually made his way to France. Along the way he worked building churches and great stone houses, and he learned how to sculpt that way. People saw his work on the homes and churches, and he began to get commissions. He makes beautiful folding fans as well, and sells them in town for a bit extra. After years and years of saving, he decided to start the colony. He often says he adopted all the artists here by giving them a place to live and work. It’s funny…An orphan adopted us all,”

            “What happened to his parents?”

            “Nobody knows. Feuilly doesn’t even know. He doesn’t even know his true birthday. He celebrates it on the summer solstice because it’s the longest day of the year and he wants to have ‘an extra long birthday to make up for not having any as a kid’, that’s what he says,” Jehan chuckled. “It’s strange, Feuilly is one of the wealthiest people I know, even from my childhood with my grossly opulent family, and yet you would never know it by looking at him or speaking with him. I think that’s the best thing about him. He’s humble.”

            “I wish he were here more,” Jehan noted. Feuilly lived mostly in the guest house out behind the main home, and worked in his studio, which was the old greenhouse attached to the tiny cottage.

            “He keeps to himself…He’s a quiet sort of person, I think, maybe it’s because he was alone for so long growing up. Don’t take it personally,”

            “When did he meet Bahorel and Eponine?”

            “He stopped at the Bauhaus in Germany for a while, and Eponine and Bahorel were both students there. When they left, they went with Feuilly to start the colony. Eponine’s parents are in prison in Germany for money laundering, and her little sister lives in Paris, now, so that she could be closer to Eponine. Bahorel’s family is still in Germany, but they visit sometimes. They’re very kind. They always bring cookies. They own a bakery up in the Black Forest region,”

            “I was going to say…Bahorel does not look like he is German. He has very dark skin and hair,”

            “That is his Black Forest genes,” Enjolras smiled. “It’s quite beautiful, I think,”

            “That is where all the fairy tales come from,” Jehan smiled. “The Grimm fairy tales,”

            “My mother used to read them to me when I was little. Rapunzel was always my favorite. I don’t know why, it was terribly gruesome, but I liked it, I suppose.” He turned to look out the window, his eyes suddenly becoming a bit sad.

            “I’m sorry,” Jehan cooed. “I didn’t mean to make you upset,”

            “I’m not upset,” he said, turning back to Jehan with a smile, his curls bouncing loosely around his immaculate face. “Only thinking,”

            “About what?”

            “About how absurd it is that my family shunned me when nothing changed. They coddled me as a young child, spoiled me rotten, and though I didn’t change in a single way, the moment they discovered my fancies, fancies I always had, they decided they no longer loved me. I only wish I understood,”

            “It shouldn’t have happened,” Jehan added, looking to Enjolras again, seeing the sorrow in his eyes. “You _are_ upset,”

            “Perhaps I am,” he admitted sadly. “But being upset will not change anything. It isn’t worth expending the energy to grieve. But anyway, who would you like to hear about next?”

            “How about Courfeyrac, he’s so sweet!”

            “Courfeyrac is completely and totally ordinary, quite honestly. He is from America, and his mother and father own a farm in a state called Iowa, have you heard of it?”

            “No. What a strange name,”

            “I agree! But anyway, he is one of six siblings, all of them girls, and fell in love with Monet’s work after he found an old book of his works in his deceased grandmother’s attic. He has a condition that disables him from reading and writing correctly, so he could not attend university, and decided to become an artist instead to continue French impressionism, though it is ‘out of style’, the salon does not appreciate it. It is not academic enough,”

            “Well that is sad…But why didn’t he stay in America with his family? Surely there are art colonies in America,”

            “He loved Monet so much, he decided to come to France where Monet lived and worked. I find it quite romantic, actually,” Jehan chuckled.

            “It would make a good poem,” he smiled.

            “I hear you are a very good poet,” Enjolras said with a smirk, raising an eyebrow.   Jehan shrugged. Enjolras really did know everything going on in the house!

            “I enjoy writing,” he replied shyly.

            “And playing matchmaker. Though I must say I am relieved. We have all been waiting for ages for Courfeyrac and Combeferre to _finally_ admit their affections. I suppose it just took your poem to finally do it,”

            “How did you know? About the poem, I mean,”

            “I know everything, Jehan Prouvaire, and don’t you ever forget it,” he gave him a wink and a smirk. “Combeferre wished to be a lepidopterist before coming here. He has an odd fascination with moths and butterflies and attended university, and was going to the rainforest to study them, but caught scarlet fever just before he was supposed to leave. It left him weak and sickly. He does not have a strong heart, even now, and his doctor told him he should not participate in any strenuous activities, which includes hiking the rainforest. That was when he started drawing. He does scientific illustrations for textbooks, now. He is the only one in the house who is uninterested in recognition. Funny enough, he earns almost as much as Grantaire for his drawings,”

            “I would like to see his things. I’ve only ever seen him drawing you or me,”

            “Ask to see his room. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind, though I warn you, there are dead butterflies _everywhere_ , all on little tacks in cases. I find it unnerving, but he could talk about them for ages,”

            “I will have to ask to see them,”

            “Ask to see his tattoos as well. Or don’t. Nobody knows he has them except me, Feuilly, and probably Courfeyrac, now. But they are beautiful, all scientific formulas and astrological shapes and things…There’s a massive moth in the center of his back, right between his shoulder blades. But nobody is allowed to see them. He says they are ‘just for him’. I think he’s mad, but that isn’t any of my business,”

            “How do you know about them, then?” Jehan asked.

            “I’ve already told you I know everything,”

            “Yes, but when did he show you?”

            “There is a large, clear pond a little ways into the woods behind the house that we occasionally swim in. I was hoping to have a private bathing session, but Combeferre had the same idea and had already stripped when I arrived. Long story short, he said he didn’t mind the company, so we sat together for a good while. That was when I saw his back and he told me about everything; the scarlet fever and university and all that,”

            “Grantaire didn’t mind you swimming with Combeferre?” Jehan asked, hoping he wasn’t prodding. He still wasn’t quite sure were Enjolras stood on his relationship with the artist.

            “You ask a lot of questions, Prouvaire,” Enjolras chuckled, as if hearing his thoughts, seeing the anxiety in his eyes. “Grantaire does not mind. We both know that we see each other exclusively. I trust him. He trusts me. That is how things should be, I think,”

            “Well that’s good,” Jehan agreed. “I wish I had someone like that…Someone I could trust like that,”

            “Well, you do not have to couple with someone to trust them completely. It just so happens that Grantaire and I…are,” he said. Jehan nodded, though he was surprised. The fact was not lost on him that it was the first time Enjolras admitted to his relationship with Grantaire.

            “Yes I know…It just seems that you all have your good friends already, and I am the odd one out,”

            “You are still new! It has been hardly a month! It will come in time. But in the meantime, I consider you a very good friend. I hope you think the same of me,”

            “I do. I really do. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, I think,”

            “That means quite a lot to me, Jehan. Thank you,”

            “But anyhow, who’s next? What about Bossuet?”

            “Oh Bossuet, he has such dumb luck, and it really is a shame. He is so kind and would do anything to make anybody happy, but he cannot seem to catch a break himself. He started balding at 17, or so he says, that’s why he’s always wearing caps, he’s embarrassed. He was born in Paris, and his mother died when he was very young, so he lived with his father, who was an artist. His father fell on hard times, none of his paintings were selling, and then the flat below theirs caught fire and destroyed their apartment as well. They could not afford to fix it, so Bossuet’s father used the last of their money to pay Bossuet’s first fee to the colony so he could continue his art, and he rented a single room from someone in town. He visits occasionally, but I think coming makes him sad. He gave up painting after the fire, and works as a grocer now,”

            “Well that is a shame…I wonder why he doesn’t live here as well,”

            “Some people are not cut out to be artists, quite honestly. He sold a few paintings years ago, but he just didn’t have the ability to keep it up. I think he wanted to give Bossuet the glory, anyhow. When old friends ask for paintings, he sends them here to Bossuet,”

            “He sounds like a good Papa,”

            “He loves his son,”

            “My father died when I was four. I wish I remembered more of him. My grandmother, his mother, always said he was the best Papa and that he loved me so much, but I just can’t remember. My mother said I looked just like him…It was one of the only kind things she said to me. At least I thought it was kind,”

            “What did he do? Was he a poet like you?”

            “I don’t know. Nobody ever said what he did, but I remember him playing the violin by the fireplace,”

            “Well that is a good memory,”

            “Yes. I am very glad for it.”

            “Cosette’s father plays the violin as well. Well, her adoptive father,”

            “Oh yes I love Cosette! Tell me about her!”

            “She had a difficult life as a child. Her mother, Fantine, had her very young, and her father abandoned her before Cosette was even born. She had to work as a prostitute to support Cosette, and died of tuberculosis when she was eight. She lived with an awful foster family for years until Valjean adopted her, but after that she had a happy childhood. He was very wealthy, Valjean, and gave her everything she didn’t have as a little girl. She speaks so fondly of him. He worries over her, though. He comes at least once a month, I’m sure he’ll be around again soon, unless Cosette has met him in town or something instead of here. He’s gotten better though, since Cosette met Marius. I think he father just wants someone to keep her safe, but if we’re being honest, Cosette is the one babying Marius, not the other way around,” Jehan laughed.

            “Marius is a bit timid,”

            “He is very timid. I think he might be afraid of me, to be honest. We had an argument over the French Revolution years ago, when he first arrived, and I became a bit passionate and shouted at him. After that he seems to avoid speaking to me, though I’ve apologized. Best not to dwell on it. He says he’s fine,”

            “Do his parents come around?”

            “Both of his parents died when he was a child. He lived with his grandfather most of his life. He comes to visit occasionally too, mostly to pay Marius’ dues, he’s very wealthy. He purchases quite a bit of artwork from us, particularly Courfeyrac. Marius and Courfeyrac get on very well, and I think Marius’ grandfather might feel sorry for him because he’s never sold a piece to anybody besides him,”

            “Well I suppose that’s kind of him,”

            “Very kind. He seems a bit gruff at first, very conservative and strict, but he really is a sweet man,”

            “Enjolras, is Joly really a doctor?” he asked, suddenly thinking of the young man, the only artist they hadn’t discussed.

            “He did not graduate from medical school, but he completed four years, so I suppose he’s something of a doctor. He would have made a great doctor, but he was crippled by his phobia of microbes and fear of becoming ill. He always says he’s sick, but he never really is. He reads medical texts quite often, and the moment he reads about a new disease, he immediately exhibits the symptoms. He could never work with real patients who were actually sick without becoming neurotic. Not to mention the cane,”

            “Why does he use a cane? Does he use it all the time?”

            “Oh yes he always carries it. His left foot turns inward and twists, and it is quite bizarre. I believe it is called clubfoot, but he is also missing his big toe on that foot,”

            “Did he lose it?”

            “No he never had it. Not as far as he knows, anyway…” Enjolras raised an eyebrow jokingly, and Jehan laughed. “Joly has a little brother and sister, twins. They live with his parents in Provence, he spends part of the winter there, from Christmas to February first. I think that’s everyone…I’ve told you about everybody!”

            “I just have one more question, if you don’t mind,” Jehan said quietly, screwing up his courage. He wasn’t sure he should ask…perhaps it was too personal. But he knew Enjolras wouldn’t tell him if he didn’t want to, and certainly wouldn’t get angry…at least he didn’t think so.

            “Alright,” Enjolras smiled.

            “I would like to know why you do not speak about your relationship with Grantaire,” Enjolras’ face suddenly became a hot red, and he looked away. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he added quickly.

            “Oh no, it’s…I just…the reason I’m here is because I was with another man. Now I am in love, and of course I am not ashamed of myself or R, but…I seem to associate relationships with abandonment, after…I mean, after my family and all,” he looked away again, towards the window.

            “Oh I see,” Jehan said gently, placing a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “I’m sorry, I was being nosy,”

            “Oh not at all, it’s alright,” he replied with a quick smile, though the tears in his eyes and the quiver in his lip were obvious. Quiet tears spilled down his cheeks.

            “Enjolras,”

            “Oh don’t worry, I’m fine!” he insisted, struggling not to sound upset, but his normally silky voice cracked, and he slapped his hand to his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut. His chest heaved, and Jehan let Enjolras fall into him, resting his forehead on his shoulder as he cried.

            “Oh dear,” Jehan said, rubbing his back as he wept. “It’s alright,”

            “I’ve never—” he sniffled, “—c-cried over this before…”

            “Well…Maybe that’s part of the problem. Sometimes you need to be sad,”

            “Maybe,” he replied quietly, pulling away from Jehan and laying down on his bed beside Jehan, who slipped from the mattress.

            “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you,” he said, turning to go.

            “No wait,” Enjolras said, “would you…would you stay?”

            “Here?” Jehan asked, returning to sit on the bed. Enjolras nodded, wiping his eyes on his hands.

            “I don’t want to be alone,”

            “I could get Grantaire—”

            “No, I…He’ll get angry. He’ll say how awful they are, but—” he sniffled again, “—I just want someone to be quiet with,”

            “Then we will be quiet,” Jehan said with a soft smile, rubbing Enjolras’ back as he lay on his stomach, his arms pulled up against his chest, like a little child. Jehan had never seen him that way before, so vulnerable and sad. It was strange, for Jehan, to be in the position of caretaker. Since he came, he had been the one being cared for, the one who needed comforting. But here he was, offering comfort. He wondered if Enjolras saw him the way Jehan was seeing him: droopy, small, woeful. It saddened him, to see his friend in such a way.

 

He stayed until Enjolras fell asleep, then penned him a small poem on a piece of scrap paper he found on the desk.

 

_Sometimes one must humor pain,_

_To let the sun come out again._

 

He left for his own bedroom, closing the door silently behind him.


	10. Chapter 10

Grantaire received a letter in the mail late in the summer. It was not a peculiar letter…In fact, it was quite average for an artist of his notoriety. He had received a request for a portrait commission, and was invited to the home of the family he was to paint. What made the letter bizarre, though, was the fact that it came from Enjolras’ mother and father.

            Grantaire knocked on the doorframe of Enjolras’ bedroom before peeking inside, finding Enjolras leaning over his dressing table, studying himself in the mirror, combing his hair. Though he appeared effortlessly beautiful, aloof in his perfection, in truth, he spent quite a bit of time on his appearance. His hair, though naturally curly and golden, needed tending to. If he did not shape the pipes carefully, he would resemble an angry dandelion. He also used some sort of balm to keep them shiny. Next came his skin, which he kept a close eye on. As a young man, Enjolras, like many, suffered a severe case of acne. Because of this, the skin on his face and back was scarred. His freckles hid the marks well, but Enjolras did not want to get any more. He washed attentively every day, twice a day to keep himself clear of blemishes. His daily ritual also included shaving his legs and underarms, and keeping everywhere else trimmed and tidy. It took him at least an hour every day to ready himself, but Grantaire or, more recently, Jehan often kept him company. It was not unusual for Grantaire to see Enjolras in such a state of dishevelment, and did not worry over disturbing him.

            “Good morning, my darling,” he cooed when he saw Grantaire’s reflection in the mirror. He turned to him and smiled, extending his long, thin arms for an embrace, wearing nothing but his underthings: a pair of clean white shorts that hit high on his thighs.

            “Good morning, Apollo,” he replied, eagerly returning the embrace, holding him tight and giving his back a welcome crack—Enjolras was prone to a stiff neck and back from sitting and standing still so very long every day.

            “And what gives me the pleasure of your company this morning?” Enjolras asked. “I thought you said you were heading into town today,”

            “I was,” he replied, running a hand through his messy, inky curls. “But I stopped at the end of the drive to check the mailbox, and found this inside,” he handed the opened envelope to the model, who took it with a furrowed brow, glancing up at Grantaire curiously. He read the note inside:

 

Monsieur Grantaire,

 

We humbly request your services for a series of portraits to hang in the family estate. You will be paid for your service, and housed and fed at our home for the duration of the project. Do reply promptly via letter or telephone at the number below.

 

Yours, Monsieur and Madam René Enjolras,

 

            “Well are you going?” Enjolras asked when he had finished reading the note. He tried to keep the emotion out of his voice, but Grantaire could see the displeasure in his eyes. Though he claimed to be unfazed by his family’s abandonment, it was easy to tell by the way he held himself, the look on his face, the way he acted when the subject was brought up, that he was quite upset by the situation. Grantaire new better than to press—Enjolras had a fiery temper when so moved—but it seemed unavoidable at this point. He would have felt badly taking the commission without asking his lover first, and he knew that Enjolras would have been rightfully angry with him if he had gone and found out later who the commission was for.

            “I wanted to speak to you before deciding,” he admitted. Enjolras motioned for him to sit in the armchair near the window, while he sat at the foot of the bed, his feet resting on the trunk just below. “What do you think? Would you be terribly disturbed if I were to go?” he asked.

            “I would hate for you to lose your best customers because of me,” Enjolras replied, twirling a lock of his hair around his fingers as it hung near his shoulders.

            “That isn’t what I asked,” Grantaire smiled meekly, and Enjolras sighed heavily, running his fingers through his hair as his head rested in his hands.

            “No,” he began, looking up, but Grantaire raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, and Enjolras confessed. “Yes,”

            “Then I will not go,”

            “I want you to go,”

            “That is a lie,”

            “It isn’t! My family cannot ruin my life forever, and I will not allow a member of the Enjolras family ruin yours either,”

            “You aren’t ruining my life,”

            “If you do not take the commission, you will lose a considerable amount of income,”

            “You are worth more to me than any amount of money,” he stood and sat beside Enjolras on the bed, allowing him to rest his golden head on his burly shoulder.

            “I still want you to go…Even though I’d miss you,” he smiled, and Grantaire rubbed his bare back with paint-stained fingers.

            “Come with me,” he said. Enjolras pulled away and looked at him as if he had two heads.

            “Have the turpentine fumes finally gone to your brain?”

            “They have not! Or…They did long ago, but why not? Come with me. Perhaps it would help,”

            “Perhaps they would kick me out the way they did before!”

            “Then you will have lost nothing,”

            “Well I cannot just…surprise them!”

            “I will tell them I am bringing an assistant. I am sure they will not refuse. They quite like me,” he grinned.

            “At least they like one of us…”

            “So we will go?”

            “…Yes. Yes I suppose so,” Enjolras replied after a long moment of quiet contemplation.

            “Then I will make the call!” Grantaire stood and planted a gentle kiss to his golden hairline before leaving the room.

 

—o0o—

 

“If either of you need anything, just ring me and I will come,” Feuilly said with a smile as he carried Enjolras’ final bag to the cab.

            “Thank you,” Enjolras replied, standing on his toes and giving him a hug.

            “Ready?” Grantaire asked, tugging on one of Enjolras’ curls, watching as it bounced back into place.

            “I suppose so,” he smiled.

            “Wait!” a tiny voice cooed from the porch. Jehan hurried down the stairs in his night shirt and a pair of slippers a size too big. “You wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye to me, would you?” he laughed, and Enjolras hugged him tight.

            “I’m sorry, Prouvaire,” he said, “did we wake you?”

Grantaire was expected to arrive at 8:00am, and Enjolras’ parents lived almost three hours away in Paris. They woke at four that morning to pack the cab, and had been as quiet as possible so as not to wake the rest of the household.

“No,” Jehan lied, “I was awake. I wanted to say goodbye properly,”

“Goodbye, then,” Enjolras said with a smile. “We will be back soon! Keep all of these crazy artists in line for me,” Jehan chuckled before looking to Grantaire with a smile. He, too, warmly embraced Jehan before holding the door of the car open for Enjolras, then sliding in himself. Feuilly and Jehan stood on the porch and waived as they pulled away.

 

—o0o—

 

Enjolras leaned against Grantaire in the back seat of the cab, sighing often and curling his hair around his fingers nervously.

            “It’ll be alright,” Grantaire said soothingly, quietly near his ear.

            “What will I say? What do I tell them?”

            “Just be polite. Be civil. Just say hello and tell them you’ve missed them.”

            “What if they do not want me? What if they send me away?”

            “Then they will not be receiving any portraits from me,” he smiled, and held Enjolras’ head to his shoulder, rubbing his hair gently. “Now go back to sleep. You look very tired,”

            “Well thank you very much,” Enjolras joked, though his eyes were already closed.

 

—o0o—

 

Jehan took a deep breath and pulled on his robe, looking himself over briefly. Unlike Enjolras, Jehan was not keen on keeping himself looking his best. He was quite honestly disgusted by his own body, and couldn’t stand looking at himself long enough to properly groom. He hadn’t shaved his legs or under his arms since leaving his mother’s house, and though she had once insisted he keep his entire lower regions hairless, he couldn’t bare to focus on the area long enough to upkeep it, and now it was impossible to tell he had ever been bare at all. The humiliation of countless hours spent being plucked by none other than his mother truly scared him, and he wanted to vomit just thinking of it. He only hoped that the artists would not take offense…

            He had decided that, with Enjolras gone, he would do his best to fill his place as fully as possible, and to him, that meant posing nude. He had discovered by listening to the others talk that the hip area and something called a _great trochanter_ was very important in a drawing, and that clothing often obscured it, making drawing more challenging in an undesirable way. He didn’t want to put anybody out, especially not the people who had been so kind to him…and so he decided to finally model properly, not quite confident, but sure he would not be ridiculed.

            The group was set to meet in the back studio at 10:00, and Jehan arrived right on time.

            “Good morning!” Bossuet greeted him with a smile.

            “Good morning,” he replied in his quiet sort of way.

            “May I make a request, before we begin?” Combeferre asked from the corner beside Courfeyrac. “Might we have one long pose? I’d like to try a painting, but I’d need quite a bit of time on the same pose,”

            “IF nobody else minds,” he looked to the others: Marius, Cosette, even Eponine, who he rarely saw. None of them objected.

            “I’ll get my painting things too!” Cosette cooed, hurrying away a returning a moment later.

            “I…Is everyone ready?” Jehan asked quietly, untying his yellow robe; the one Enjolras had given him when he arrived.

            “I believe so!” Courfeyrac replied with his goofy grin, the gap in his two front teeth making Jehan smile despite his nerves. He took a deep breath and let the robe fall to the floor.

            He wasn’t exactly sure what to expect, but he suspected somebody would say _something_ , and he mentally prepared himself before stepping onto the model stand, but no one said anything out of the ordinary.

            “If you could bend an arm or a leg…” Courfeyrac suggested, cocking his head and thinking, looking Jehan over, but not intimidating.

            “Or sit,” Eponine said simply from her cozy corner, peeking around her easel.

            “Yes that would be very good,” Cosette agreed, and so Jehan spread his robe and sat atop it, his legs crossed, his hands rested on his ankles. His long hair fell over his shoulder pleasingly, and everyone began their work.

 

After about half an hour, Jehan stretched his arms above his head, straightening his back, signaling a break. Jehan pulled his robe back on and sat on the end of the model stand, pushing his hair behind his ear as the others left the room. Soon, everyone had gone except Combeferre, who sharpened a pencil, still sketching on a canvas for his painting.

            “Thank you for filling in for Enjolras,” he said after a long moment of silence. “You are very good at this! You stay very still,”

            “Thank you, I suppose!” he chuckled lightly. He was quiet for another long moment, thinking, gathering his courage to ask Combeferre something…

            “Is…I mean…do…does everything…look…agreeable?” he asked, glancing down to his lap, hoping Combeferre caught his meaning. He did, and gave a quick nod.

            “We are not particular,” he replied with a soothing smile, seeing Jehan’s discomfort. “Our old model, Montparnasse, he remained natural as well. In fact, he only ever shaved his face! And his hair was considerably darker than yours. You are so fair, you can hardly see anything on your legs,”

            “Oh that’s good,” he smiled, relieved. “I was quite worried. Enjolras is so perfect, and I—” Combeferre chuckled, shaking his head.

            “Enjolras is far from perfect, Prouvaire. Do not worry yourself trying to emulate him,”

            “It’s just that he seems so flawless. He always looks so beautiful, with his curls and his perfect face and eyes…” Jehan mused, thinking of Enjolras, so ethereal, so poised and careful in everything he did.

            “Enjolras may look put together, but he suffers from some…invisible maladies, I assure you,”

            “Like what?” Jehan asked. He spent quite a bit of time with Enjolras, talking, laughing, sharing stories, and he thought he knew him well. But after thinking about it for a moment, Jehan realized that, though Enjolras was open about information concerning the rest of the household, he rarely spoke about himself or his feelings. The only time Jehan had seen Enjolras truly emotional was when he spoke about his family, but surely the reaction was warranted. He wasn’t sure what Combeferre was talking about.

            “He does not like to talk about it…But I hear you are very careful with secrets. I suppose telling you wouldn’t cause any harm. The others have found out, either on their own or from someone else,” he began. Jehan listened carefully. It was true, after all, that he was good at keeping quiet. Jehan prided himself on his ability to keep a secret. “Enjolras’ mind is a peculiar place, it seems. He falls into depression and fits of anxiety relatively often, but he keeps quiet about it because he fears he will be sent away to an asylum. He says it began after his mother and father forced him out, but Joly suspects he has always had some difficulty. He learned about it during his studies as a doctor,”

            “That is very sad…I wish he would have told me. He could have confided in me,” Jehan was suddenly very guilty. Enjolras had been so kind to him, letting him cry on his shoulder, soothing him to sleep when his dreams turned vile, all while being plagued by bottomless sadness himself.

            “I believe Grantaire serves as his confidant, quite honestly. They share most everything with each other. They have helped each other quite a lot, I think. Grantaire has some ghosts of his own, but I am not at liberty to discuss them…” Jehan suspected he was speaking about Grantaire’s alcoholism, but decided not to pry. “Enjolras also has a bit of a weight problem. He is very waifish…he does not eat as much as he should, but he hides it well. He is a bit of a gymnast, and keeps himself very strong to disguise his thinness. Joly suspects that has something to do with his fits of dizziness,”

            “I see…” Jehan pushed his hair behind his ear again as the others began to filter back into the studio.

            “But do not worry. Enjolras can handle himself, and when he cannot, Grantaire helps him along.” He smiled, and Jehan nodded, reassuming his position as everyone returned to their work.

 

 

 

 

Boop doop.


	11. Chapter 11

The moment the taxi stopped, Enjolras burst into tears and fell into Grantaire.

            “I can’t do it, R, I can’t do it,” he babbled into his shoulder. Grantaire nuzzled his golden hair. Though he had woken early, and had little time to ready himself, he still smelled sweetly, like rose water and the tealeaves he so carefully chose for his good-morning cup.

            “You can,” he whispered, rubbing his large hand up and down Enjolras’ back. “I know you can. But if you don’t want to, then we will go home,”

            Enjolras hesitated for a moment, but eventually inhaled deeply and lifted his head. He wiped his reddened eyes, and pushed open the door, smiling meekly to Grantaire before stepping onto the manicured gravel drive.

            Grantaire was immediately struck by the size of the home they had arrived at, the gravel drive edged in flowering trees, the roof three stories above them, everything of marble. Sculptures dotted the garden, which was expansive, and the lawn was perfectly manicured, with no dead patches or weeds. Enjolras was, understandably, not as impressed. He had lived here all his life, played on this lawn, learned to ride a bicycle on this driveway, had his first kiss in one of the trees bordering the garden path. His life was here, his history, and yet he felt like an outsider here. Instead of being welcoming, the façade of the massive house cast a shadow over him, long in the rising sun.

            Grantaire took his suitcase as well as Enjolras’, and in a moment, the cab was gone, the only route of escape rumbling away down the long driveway.

            “Nice house,” Grantaire said in the sudden silence. “Mine was about as big as the gatehouse,” he chuckled, trying hard to brighten Enjolras, to elicit that angelic smile, but none came.

            Grantaire began up the front steps, fifteen of them, to be exact, and up to the massive front door. He lifted the heavy knocker, studying the golden lion’s head grasping the ring before allowing it to strike the door. Enjolras stood back, behind Grantaire, all but hidden behind him, as an older man in a suit opened the door.

            “Ah, you must be Monsieur Grantaire, welcome,” he smiled. Enjolras knew the voice. It was one of the three butlers who served the family. His name was Jacques, and he had been Enjolras’ favorite. He always brought chocolate and candies up to his bedroom and left them under the pillow, and helped him sneak back inside silently after a secret, late-night stroll in the gardens. “And your assistant, I presume—” he peered around Grantaire to where Enjolras stood, his head cast downward, but the doorman recognized him easily. He had more or less raised him, and would have known that golden head and long, slender nose anywhere.

            “René,” the butler said, his eyes glossy with tears. “My little René!” he smiled. Enjolras pressed his lips together, tears rolling down his freckly cheeks. He could not meet the eyes of the older man, ashamed of himself, but Jacques stepped onto the stoop and gave him a hug anyhow.

            “I have missed you,” he said quietly.

            “I missed you too,” Enjolras replied through his tears.

            “Terribly sorry,” he man said a moment later, pulling away. “I have forgotten myself! Allow me to take these, and I will show you to your room, though I doubt young Master Enjolras will have trouble finding it!” he took their bags from Grantaire and allowed them inside. “Master Enjolras and his wife are just finishing their breakfast. They will meet you in the library when they have finished.” He showed them upstairs, and lead them to Enjolras’ old bedroom door. Enjolras bowed his eyebrows. Of all the rooms in their magnificent home, his mother and father readied Enjolras’ bedroom for someone they hardly knew? It struck him as strange, but he said nothing. “Take your time, settle in,” Jacques smiled. “Just ring if you need anything.” He closed the bedroom door.

            “This is your house?” Grantaire asked, his eyes wide, looking around the massive room, the ceilings nearly fifteen feet high, the walls decorated with patterned cranberry colored silk with gold accents that glittered in the light.

            “It was,” Enjolras replied, sitting on his old bed, the spring of the mattress familiar.

            “This room is beautiful…Are they all like this?”

            “Not identical…”

            “This is real gold,” Grantaire ran his fingers carefully over the leafing on the wallpaper.

            “My father insisted on it. I liked the plain red, but—”

            “You chose it?”

            “This is my bedroom!” he chuckled for the first time that morning, and Grantaire was glad for it. He sat beside him on the bed.

            “It suits you!” he replied, looking around at the room, the grand decoration, the delicate, upholstered furniture with dark wood legs and arms, all of it carefully carved, all of it accented with gold.

            “It’s a bit much…Gaudy, I think,” Enjolras admitted, though he could not say he did not miss his king-sized bed.

            “It’s beautiful,” he said. Enjolras put his head on Grantaire’s burly shoulder. “Almost as beautiful as you,”

            “Do not say that in front of anyone,”

            “That will be a challenge,” he turned his head and nuzzled Enjolras’ hair with his large nose. He kissed his ear, his cheek, and Enjolras blushed.

            “I suppose we ought to go down now,” he said after a long moment.

            “I suppose you’re right,” Grantaire replied, standing, pulling Enjolras up and into an embrace.

            “What will we tell them?” Enjolras asked.

            “About what?”

            “About how we met…?”

            “We will tell them the truth. The art colony,”

            “They will not approve of me modeling,”

            “They do not approve of much, do they?”

            “No…”

            “Well…Tell them you are truly my assistant, then. I am renowned. Enough to warrant an assistant, anyway, if I wanted one,” he smiled. Enjolras nodded.

            “Yes. Yes alright,” he walked with Grantaire to the door and lead him downstairs and to the library, stopping before he opened the door.

            “You first,” he said, looking up and into Grantaire’s deep, dark eyes, eyes that Enjolras had fallen in love with before even truly meeting the man they belonged to. They were so deep, so endless; it was as if the universe was housed there, and that one might fall into it and sail forever into the void.

            Grantaire turned the massive doorknob slowly, pushing the door open and peeking around it to find Monsieur and Madam Enjolras sitting near the picture window, overlooking the garden. Enjolras’ father, René Enjolras Senior, stood and beaconed him inside. Enjolras hung back, behind the door, out of sight.

            “Monsieur Grantaire,” René said with gusto. He was far taller than his son, probably a bit over six foot, but still dwarfed by unusually tall Grantaire, who smiled and shook his hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you at last! You create such masterful works, I envisioned you older!”

            “Only 26,” he replied in his gruff sort of way. He was not talkative, unless he was with Enjolras.

            “You are truly a protégé. As you can see, we have quite a few of your works,” he extended an arm to the walls of the library, and sure enough, between the bookshelves and over the two fireplaces hung numerous paintings, all of them by Grantaire, most of them of Enjolras. “My wife favors your paintings featuring this particular model,” he added.

            “His curly hair reminds me of my son,” she piped lightly with a sad smile.

            “Your son?” Grantaire asked, looking to the woman. She was the picture of 1930s fashion, her hair cut short and covered in a stylish cap decorated with a silk flower, and a dress that cinched her waist. It was obvious that Enjolras had gotten his looks from his father, who shared his golden hair and piercing eyes, and his stature from his mother, who was very small and delicate.

            “Yes,” she continued. “He…no longer lives with us,”

            “I see…” Grantaire said, glancing over his shoulder to the door, where Enjolras was still out of sight, collecting his courage.

            “I wonder if your model looks like him, sometimes,” she added after a moment. “I have never seen a painting that shows all his face,” Grantaire did not typically sell or submit works featuring Enjolras’ face. He felt he could not capture it properly, that his paintings could not replicate his careful features, his eyes, so full of feeling.

            “Well…have a look, I suppose,” he turned to the door again, and Enjolras stood in the doorway, the sunshine from the hall window making his hair glow like a halo.

            His mother stood suddenly, her gloved hands covering her mouth as her eyes filled with tears. She ran to him, and hugged him tight, though Enjolras did not reciprocate and simply stood stone still in the doorway.

            “My baby,” she cried, holding him, rocking him back and forth. Enjolras looked to Grantaire with a look he couldn’t quite identify, and was unsure if he should step in or not. His mother only released him when his father approached.

            He opened his arms to his son with a smile, but Enjolras would have none of it. He took a step backwards, and when his father matched his step, he put up his hands defensively.

            “René,” the man said sternly, put off by his child’s avoidance. Enjolras only looked at him, unblinking, his face painted with a look of horrified betrayal. “What is the matter?”

            “You sent me away,” he replied tearfully, looking away.

            “René, I didn’t know, I didn’t understand—”

            “You sent me Away!” he shouted, his eyes becoming cold and stony, a look everyone in the room was quite familiar with, the look Enjolras took on in moments of passion or rage, and though he was rather small in stature, that look made him massive, threatening.

            “But I am glad you are here now,”

            “Are you?” the man’s jaw tightened.

            “I am,” he replied shortly, “though I am not sure why you are here.”

            “I did mention I would be accompanied by an assistant,” Grantaire said as he stepped behind Enjolras, who leaned back into him, tired of standing, tired of everything. It was hardly 9:00, and he was already exhausted.

            “My son is not an _assistant_ ,” the father said, sounding slightly disgusted, as if the task of assisting an artist was below his family.

            “I don’t—” Grantaire began, but he was cut short.

            “I am not his assistant,” Enjolras said. “I am his model.” His mother looked like she might gag, and once again, she covered her mouth with her hand, looking out the window, trying to remove herself from the uncomfortable situation.

            “Then why have you come?! You are unnecessary!” his father replied loudly, becoming angry. Yes, he had missed his son, but he had not missed his son’s high spirit or his—

            “Because I love him,” Enjolras blurted. “and he loves me, and he wished for me to accompany him, in hopes that I may make amends with you. But it has already become obvious to me that that is not going to happen, so perhaps we should leave,”

            “Please don’t go,” his mother said softly through her tears. “René, do not send him away. He has only just returned and you are already fighting again! Let him stay. Have our paintings done…Perhaps one of little René as well.” She smiled meekly. Enjolras’ father sighed heavily before nodding to Grantaire in agreement, then glancing down to his son, his face painted harshly, but his eyes sad. Enjolras held his ground, and though Grantaire could tell by his clenched fists and shaking shoulders that he very much wanted to cry, no tears spilled from his eyes.

            “Very well,” René said. “You will both stay. What time can you be expected to begin your work, Monsieur Grantaire?” he asked, walking back towards the window, his hands behind his back.

            “In a few hours, I should think…I would appreciate the chance to settle in,”

            “Then I will meet you here at noon to begin.” He motioned to the door, and Grantaire followed Enjolras out and back upstairs to the bedroom, where Enjolras ran straight to the bed and plowed his head into one of the pillows. Though he was silent, Grantaire could immediately that he was in tears, his shoulders heaving, his body shaking. Grantaire set a hand on his back.

            “It’s alright. I am here,” he said soothingly, and Enjolras sat up, falling into his lap, allowing himself to be cuddled, to be kissed, to be loved. After he calmed down, Grantaire smiled and placed his hand on Enjolras’ chest and laid him down on the silken duvet, kissing him deeply, pulling away slowly, taking his lower lip between his teeth in a gentle tug. A shiver ran through Enjolras, and he pulled Grantaire’s shirt from where it was tucked into his trousers, tugging it free and running his fingers up his chest, fisting his hand in Grantaire’s hair and fisting it just enough to elicit a murmur against his neck, where Grantaire nuzzled.

            “Don’t leave marks,” Enjolras said quietly.

            “You must be punished somehow for pulling my chest hair,” he replied with a chuckle.

            “Do not pretend you don’t enjoy it,”

            “ _s' agapó,_ ” Grantaire hummed against his ear. Enjolras felt his trousers becoming uncomfortably tight, and Grantaire smiled deviously, obviously also aware. He bent a leg and placed his knee between Enjolras’ legs, giving him just enough contact to keep him comfortable, but not enough to satisfy him.

            “I know what that means,” he smiled, taking Grantaire’s stubbly cheek in his hand.

            “ _Naí_ ” he replied jokingly.

            “Yes!”

            “Do tell, my darling Apollo,”

            “You said ‘I love you’”

            “I did,”

            “Say something else,” he closed his eyes, and Grantaire worked Enjolras’ shirt over his head.

            “ _ti prépei na po?_ ” he smiled, and Enjolras seemed to glow, the words reaching his soul, though he did not know what they meant. Grantaire laughed at his reaction.

            “I have only asked you what you would like me to say,” he chuckled.

            “Anything,” Enjolras replied with a smile, his cheeks rosy. “So long as you say it to me,”

            “ _To paidáki mou to roússo, na t’alláxo na to loúso. Na to steílo stin daskála, na’nai pio ómorfo apo t’ álla_ ,” he said in a sing-song-y voice. Enjolras laughed.

            “What does that mean?”

            “It is a song my mother used to sing to me,” he explained. “It doesn’t make much sense in English,”

            “Tell me anyway,”

“My rosy child, My fair-haired child, A child all gold. What need has he to change clothes?’ it’s sort of like…you’re so beautiful, you’d never have to take a bath or change your clothes to look nice,”

“You are telling me children’s rhymes before you ravish me?” he laughed, and Grantaire smiled, his cheeks becoming hot and red.

“It was the only thing I could think of!” he replied. Enjolras hugged his neck before working his trousers down, allowing R to do the same to him.

“Your beauty never ceases to astound me,” he said, sitting up, looking over his lover as he lay nude, the fact that he was laying in his childhood bed did not escape Grantaire, and was somehow exhilarating.

“I am not beautiful,” he replied, his cheeks flushing a rosy shade. Yes, he made an attempt at beautiful…and perhaps others believed his charade, but he was not truly. He was not as he should have been.

His life was a spiraling storm of uncertainty, and at times he felt he was not in control of his own fate. Sometimes he thought himself a burden. Other times he was so depressed he could not pull himself from bed. He often refused food. Other times he would simply forget to eat altogether, busied with other thoughts, modeling, dizzy, Grantaire, Jehan…And as much as he hated to admit it, he was wasting away.

“You are,” Grantaire continued, leaning towards him again, giving a kiss, taking him in hand and running his fingertips gently up and down, slowly, carefully, the way he knew Enjolras most enjoyed. “Perhaps a bit thin, but beauty is not always in body, Apollo,”

“I worry we will ruin the duvet,” he whispered, lost to the feeling, the sensation of Grantaire’s careful hand.

“Then we will not make a mess,” he grinned, lowering his head, level with Enjolras’ hips, and replacing his calloused fingers with smooth, full lips. Enjolras smiled, breathless.

 

—o0o—

 

            “What am I to do while you paint, my darling?” Enjolras asked as he pulled his curls out of their loose, useless ponytail that had once been tied at the nape of his long, slender neck.

            “I suspect you will have the day to yourself,” Grantaire replied, dressing himself, combing his hair, erasing all evidence of the love he and Enjolras had shared before meeting Monsieur Enjolras in the library.

            “But I do not want the day to myself,” he replied, rolling over in bed, still nude under the duvet. Grantaire knew very well it was difficult to get Enjolras out of bed and dressed after lovemaking. He would often roll around, half asleep, naked in bed for nearly an hour before forcing himself from his cozy nest, always disheveled, his hair all a mess. That was the way Grantaire loved to see him most.

            “Then what do you want?”

            “I want to be with you,”

            “We cannot always have what we want, my dear, though I very much wish I could give it to you,”

            “Then I suppose I will wander the gardens, all alone, by myself…”

            “I do not see why you can’t sit in the library while I paint,” he smiled, handing Enjolras his underthings, which had found their way to the floor with the rest of his clothes.

            “That’s alright,” he replied, “I would actually enjoy a stroll in the garden…”

“Then I will see you later,” Grantaire said as Enjolras reached his arms up for a hug, which Grantaire indulged, then and sat on the window seat while Enjolras dressed. Then they headed down stairs together, parting outside the library.

 

—o0o—

 

“Ah, Grantaire, there you are,” M. Enjolras said, standing from where he sat in front of the library fireplace. He seemed far less pleased to see him now, after Enjolras made their relationship evident, but he was not rude, and Grantaire kept his composure. “Is this an appropriate location for painting? I’d like the fireplace in the piece,”

            “Wherever you’d like,” he replied.

            “Then let us begin,” he sat down and dusted off the front of his jacket with his hands, then further flattened his slicked, greying curls. He gazed at the window, the light casting an agreeable glow on his angular face.

 

Grantaire painted for about half an hour in silence, but M. Enjolras suddenly sighed. Grantaire looked up.

            “Are you in need of a stretch?” he asked.

            “On no, I am alright,” he replied, “But I was hoping I could ask you a few things…”

            “If you’d like,”

            “First I would like to know how you became acquainted with my son. Where has he been residing for the past three years?”

            “I rent studio space at the Les Amis de la Provence colony. Your son wandered in asking for room and board in return for his services. He said he was willing to clean or tend the garden or cook, but the landlord, the sculptor, Feuilly, he told Enjolras we were more in need of a model,” he explained, saying as little as possible, not purposely, but simply because it was his way. He continued his painting as he spoke.

            “And you live there as well?”

            “I do,” Another long silence followed, and almost fifteen minutes passed before M. Enjolras stood without warning, eliciting a discontented sigh from Grantaire. He did not seem to notice, and walked to a space of blank wall Grantaire soon realized was a hidden door. Beside the door was a panel of switches, one of which the man flipped, and spoke into what looked like a small speaker on the edge of the nearby bookshelf.

            “Send brandy and two glasses to the library, would you, Jacques?” he said before flipping the switch again and reassuming his position. Though Grantaire suspected he thought he was in the same place, he was not, but he decided to keep quiet. It wasn’t important, and quite honestly, he didn’t care enough to correct the man.

            “So René is your model?” he continued shortly.

            “He is…Well, all of ours, not only mine,”

            “And what do you mean by that?” he asked, seeming suddenly a bit cross.

            “We have open studio sessions where all the artists in residence draw from the model,” he explained, continuing his painting, remaining his typical, aloof self.

            “And he poses…in the nude…for all of them?”

            “He does,”

            “Other men have seen him, then?”

            “A few,” Grantaire shrugged. He didn’t see what the big deal was. They were all very respectful of their models, and nobody was forcing anything on Enjolras. His father sighed, but said nothing further for another long while. Soon, the butler from earlier entered the library with a bottle of honey-colored brandy and two glasses on a silver tray.

            “Would you like anything else, Monsieur?” he asked, looking first to M. Enjolras, then to Grantaire. Both refused further service, and the butler took his leave.

            “Time for a well deserved break, I think,” the older man said with a smile, motioning for Grantaire to sit in a nearby chair. He did, and sat quietly while the man poured brandy into the two delicate glasses. He offered one to Grantaire, but he held up a hand and shook his head.

            “No?” M. Enjolras asked, bowing his eyebrows.

            “I do not drink,” he replied, though he could not help the tingle in his fingertips. He looked away, the temptation of the nearby bottle tugging at him. He could have finished what was left of the half-empty bottle on his own in an hour, and wouldn’t bat an eye, but he knew that if he did, Enjolras would be upset with him. He couldn’t do that to him. He couldn’t upset him.

            “Hm,” the man reclined in his armchair. “So, Grantaire, how long have you and my son been…involved?” he asked, seeming to struggle with the words the same way he had struggled earlier over the word ‘nude’, for whatever reason.

            “I am not sure…two years, I think,” he replied. A lie. It had been two years and six months, almost exactly, and Grantaire was well aware. Yes, he was largely indifferent and a bit gruff, but he was also passionate and attentive to those he truly loved. He never missed an anniversary, and always did something special for Enjolras, whether it be flowers, a painting, or dinner out.

            “And what of your mother and father? Do they approve?”

            “I am Greek…They live in Greece,”

            “That is not what I asked,” M. Enjolras replied gruffly.

            “They do approve,” Grantaire said with a heavy sigh. “There is not so much stigma, there,”

            “I see,” he sipped his drink. “And have you had…relations…with my son?” he asked. Grantaire wasn’t sure what to say. Should he lie? Tell a half-truth? Should he announce that he and Enjolras engaged in passionate love-making hardly an hour before and that Grantaire could still taste him on his tongue? Probably not…

            “I am…not sure if that is mine to tell,” he replied after a long moment.

            “Well I suppose that answers that, then,” he rolled his eyes.

            “Not to offend, Monsieur, but I do not think you realize how upsetting this has been for Enjolras,” he stated, becoming slightly more passionate. He could not sit and listen to someone expressing such distain for someone he loved. “He has not changed in the least, and does not understand. He loves you. He misses you. But he is frightened to say so because he fears you will send him away again. I am sorry you do not approve of our relationship, but do not abandon him because of me,”

  1. Enjolras was quiet for a long moment, looking to his lap, his face reddened. Grantaire feared he was angry, and braced himself for a shouting match, but none came. Instead, he wiped quiet tears from his eyes and looked up with a sigh.



            “I wanted the perfect child…”

            “You have him.” He smiled. “Perhaps he is not how you anticipated he would be, but he is perfect, nonetheless. You know he is,”

            “You’re right. I am sorry,” he looked away, sounding quite stiff. Grantaire knew he did not truly believe what he was saying, and glanced down to his hands that rested in his lap, picking at his already-stubby fingernails.

            “You do not have to say you agree if you do not,” Grantaire said after a moment. “But do not take it out on Enjolras. Anyhow, shall we continue?” he asked as M. Enjolras finished his drink, placing the glass down on the tray. He nodded, and reassumed his position, looking out the window.


	12. Chapter 12

  1. Enjolras dismissed Grantaire for the day at 5:00, and when Enjolras wasn’t back in the bedroom or around the house, Grantaire went out to the gardens to search for him.



            The gardens were expansive, featuring stone paths and sprawling beds of neatly manicured flowering bushes, boxwoods, and fountains. Grantaire was sure he had taken a wrong turn and found himself in the gardens of Versailles.

            It took him a good while, but he eventually stumbled upon Enjolras at the center of a boxwood labyrinth, paved with mossy stones, covered in petals from the flowering trees above. He sat under one of those trees, strumming a guitar, a pile of oranges from one of the nearby trees sat at his side. Grantaire couldn’t help shaking his head. This was like a terrible romance novel, complete with tousled hair and sleepy eyes. It would have made a nice painting…Perhaps later.

            “I didn’t know you could play the guitar,” he said, giving Enjolras quite a fright. His eyes flashed upward, but softened into a smile in a moment.

            “I can play the piano as well,” he grinned, placing the instrument down carefully and tossing an orange to Grantaire, peeling one for himself.

            “How did this escape my knowledge?” he sat beside him under the tree, biting into the skin of the fruit to puncture it.

            “There is not a piano back home…And I am not very good at the guitar…Not good enough to warrant purchasing one. I do not exactly make millions…not anymore,” he smiled meekly.

            “I wish you had said something,” R replied, pulling him close, burying his nose in his golden hair.

            “Why? I don’t need a piano or a guitar to be happy. You are enough for me,”

            “Just because you do not need something doesn’t mean you cannot want it,”

            “I received everything I ever wanted for the first twenty years of my life. I don’t want to want anything else. I’ve been a parasite, a leach, completely ignorant to the needs of others. I do not want to be that way anymore,”

            “You were a child,” Grantaire replied, placing his head on top of Enjolras’ as he rested it on his shoulder. “Children are not supposed to know the suffering of the world. They are supposed to be joyful,”

            “Were you?”

            “Yes!”

            “I am still guilty…I am sure you were joyful for different reasons…”

            “I was joyful because I could harass the goats and gorge myself on olives and that my mother bought me pencils,” he described with a grin. “What made you happy when you were a child?”

            “My hundred dollar rocking horse, the _actual_ horse I received when I outgrew the rocking horse, running through the gardens and making a terrible mess, completely inconsiderate of the staff who tirelessly followed me, putting everything back into place so that I might ruin the beds again, expensive new clothes, and mountains of ice cream I could never finish but demanded anyhow, wasting most of it simply because I thought it looked nice with three scoops instead of one. I was a deplorable child,”

            “It isn’t your fault,” Grantaire replied, “You did not know any different, but now you do, and being a spoilt child does not mean you cannot be an adult surrounded by things that make you happy,”

            “I am already surrounded by enough happiness to last a lifetime,” he closed his eyes, snuggling against Grantaire’s side. R smiled for a moment, running his hand up and down Enjolras’ arm, his thin shirt gliding smoothly over his skin.

            After a quiet minute or two, Enjolras craned his neck and kissed Grantaire sweetly, taking his cheek in his hand, the stubble scratching pleasantly at his palm. He pulled away slowly, and Grantaire reached to bring him back, but Enjolras stood. Grantaire raised an eyebrow.

            “What?” Enjolras asked with a cheeky grin.

            “Come back,”

            “Make me!” he darted around the hedge, and Grantaire stood, running after him with a goofy smile.

            Enjolras ran around the labyrinth of boxwoods, doubling back, making sure Grantaire walked into all of the dead ends. He knew the maze well, and found his way out quickly, leaving Grantaire fumbling around, following Enjolras’ voice as he shouted silly taunts until he finally found the exit. Enjolras waved from a low hanging branch, and Grantaire ran to the trunk, reaching it just in time for him to hop down and run back into the garden, through the many cobbled paths and mossy walks, until they reached a circle of manicured orange trees, a massive fountain bubbling at its center.

            Enjolras grinned from the other side of the fountain, peeking around the large statue in the center, a likeness of a young man with hair plated in gold, wearing a flowing robe and holding a jug of water from which the fountain flowed.

            “Ganymede,” Grantaire noted with a grin.

            “I am an Aquarius,” Enjolras replied over the flowing of the water. Grantaire smiled and ran a hand through his hair, walking around the fountain toward Enjolras, but he moved as well, keeping them on opposite sides. They danced around the fountain this way for a while, Enjolras’ giggles simply taunting R, who finally lunged over the edge, straight through the fountain, and took his lover’s waist in his hands, pulling them both backwards and straight into the pool with a splash.

            Enjolras was in stiches, completely soaked from toes to golden strands of hair. Grantaire couldn’t help but stare as his papery white shirt stuck to his every contour.

            “I haven’t heard you laugh so hard in a very long time!” Grantaire said with a smile, pulling himself from the water and sitting on the edge of the fountain. Enjolras remained in the water, sitting as if he belonged there, completely content to be soaked through to the bone.

            “I haven’t had so much fun in a very long time,” he replied, leaning back and submerging his head, pushing his hair back with his hands as it floated around his head in the water.

            “You could be a nymph,”

            “I could not…As much as I would like to, I cannot sit in the fountain all day,” he stood, droplets sparking as they fell from his body, his clothing stuck to his skin.

 

They walked back through the gardens again, to the expansive back deck, paved in white marble and decorated with mosaic tiles.

            “We cannot traipse through the house soaking wet,” Grantaire noted as he and Enjolras dripped on the patio.

            “Then I suppose we will have to get out of our wet things,” he replied with a cheeky smirk. He undid the buttons on his shirt and pulled it off, wringing it out. Grantaire raised an eyebrow, stifling a laugh. His trousers came next, and soon Enjolras was only in his underthings, which were also soaked through and nearly translucent.

            “Well what are you waiting for? I will not have you dripping a trail through my house,”

            “It is one thing if your parents see you undressed, but quite another if they see me,” he replied.

            “They won’t see us. We’ll take the servant’s hallways!” Grantaire rolled his eyes before stripping down himself, until he wore only his underwear, the rest in a sopping heap in his arms. Enjolras lead him off the patio and to a small door off to the side, completely unnoticeable. Grantaire was amazed at the flawlessness in which the house had been built. It was so expertly constructed so that the staff could move about unseen, able to reach every room without once stepping into the living quarters of the house.

            “How do you know which way to go?” R asked once they entered the narrow passage, the walls a simple white paint, so different from the lavish wallpapers and silks of the rest of the home.

            “How do you think I snuck friends in?”

            “ _friends?_ ”

            “You know what I mean! I know the way!” he climbed a tightly spiraled staircase and continued down another hall, through a linen closet, and finally into his bedroom through a hidden door, which he shut quietly behind them. He draped his clothes over the edge of the tub in the bathroom, and Grantaire did the same before tidying himself up a bit and taking off his wet undergarments, replacing them with a towel. When he exited the bathroom, he found Enjolras sitting on the richly upholstered settee, gazing out his window and over the gardens, in nothing but his golden head of curls.

            “As much as I appreciate the gesture, you do not have to pose for me now, Apollo,” Grantaire joked. Enjolras turned to look at him, shaking himself from his daydreaming.

            “Forgive me, I must have gotten distracted…” he replied, standing and pulling on clean, dry clothes.

            “That is alright,” he placed his large hands over Enjolras’ dainty fingers as he buttoned his shirt, finishing the job while he stood silently until Grantaire placed a kiss to the grown of his head.

            “I can dress myself, you know,”

            “I know you _can_ , but that does not mean you _should_ ,”

            “And what do you mean by that, Grantaire?”

            “I mean that I wish to do it for you because I love you dearly and find great joy in looking after you,”

            “ _You’re_ the one who needs looking after!” Enjolras tossed back with a smile.

            “Then this is payment of my debt,” he bent his knees so that he could look Enjolras in the face, then gave a quick, joking kiss to his long, slender nose.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
This is sorta short.  Sarrie.  


	13. Chapter 13

After Enjolras and Grantaire left, Jehan found himself becoming very withdrawn. Though he knew the others in the house, and had for over a month, now, but Enjolras was still his bridge to the others, and without him, he became timid…more so than before. What’s worse, he found himself feeling…deprived. And shame washed over him because of it. He would wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, shaking and thinking of anything and everything to try to calm his betraying body without having to get a hand involved, but more often than not, he needed to relieve himself of the seething shame. But he found no relief during the day, either, and found issue keeping his troubles to himself, particularly during modeling sessions.

            It didn’t take long for his predicament to become obvious, and if it was not before, it certainly was when Jehan very suddenly broke his pose.

            He had been fine…he kept his thoughts quiet and his body calm, until he opened his eyes and found Feuilly’s eyes fixed on his. When their gazes met, Feuilly gave him a small, sweet smile before looking away, nervous, but in a confident sort of way, he knew what he felt, and was open about feeling it, but his cheeks still flushed pink, and Jehan was suddenly struck dumb. He was brought back to himself, though, when he felt a certain something stirring against the inside of his thigh. He tried desperately to think of something else, anything else, but it was useless, and soon he was quite obviously roused. He squeezed his eyes shut as tears flooded his cheeks, and reached down suddenly for his robe, simply holding it to his front and rushing from the room, not even bothering to put it on properly. The artists looked between each other, confused, concerned. Courfeyrac, Bahorel, Bossuet, and Marius all started for the door, meaning to follow Jehan, but Feuilly stopped them.

            “I’ll see what’s happened,” he said in his gentle sort of way, standing in the doorway for a moment and offering the group a reassuring smile before following Jehan, finding him after following his sniffles. Under the kitchen table seemed a bit juvenile, but it was the only place Jehan could think to hide. Feuilly lifted the tablecloth and peered underneath.

            “Prouvaire,” he said quietly, finding Jehan curled in on himself, his legs and arms pulled inside his robe, lying in a ball on the floor.

            “I’m sorry,” he replied in a shaky whisper, seeming to constrict himself further. Feuilly moved a chair out of the way and joined Jehan under the table, placing a hand lovingly onto his shoulder. Jehan thought he might burst simply from the contact.

            From the moment Jehan saw Feuilly, he felt…something. He wasn’t sure what the feeling was, exactly, as he could not yet identify real love, but he knew the feeling was there, and that it was good. Even a month later, he still couldn’t decide if this warm feeling he perceived from Feuilly was truly infatuation, or simply the love one feels for a savior, but it had become evident that his feelings were deeper than he anticipated. As he lay under the kitchen table, he realized he might be in love…real love…and it scared him.

            Feuilly, too, had been living with a bit of inner turmoil. He was still young, yes, but not as young as Jehan…Though he wasn’t sure, he had heard a rumor that Jehan had recently turned 21, and Feuilly’s heart lifted ever so slightly. He was 29. Not old by any means, but perhaps too old for Jehan to consider desirable. He knew most of Prouvaire’s tormentors out on the street were men older than himself, and that Jehan was fearful, even now. So Feuilly kept his distance, rarely showing his face during group drawing and painting sessions when Jehan modeled. He was content to watch the young man walk through the small garden with Enjolras, ever-so-slightly jealous of their friendship. At the same time, he did not want Jehan to believe he was avoiding him. It was a delicate balance, keeping close enough to snow caring, but far enough away to keep from being frightening. Even so, Feuilly leapt at the chance to offer comfort. In the absence of Enjolras, the position was open, and he took it, hoping to become closer to the young man he had been pining over for a month.

            “You don’t need to be sorry,” Feuilly replied gently with a smile. “It happens to all of us…Save Cosette and Eponine, that is,” he chuckled. Jehan did not.

            “I wish I did not have a body, sometimes,” Prouvaire continued after a long moment of silence. “Then it could not betray me this way,”

            “You find no pleasure in it, I suppose. Not after what you’ve been through,” Jehan shook his head, no.

            “And yet these things still happen. I wish they would not,”

            “It is only a matter of biology, nothing more. Nobody will ever force you to act on these reactions again. Not if I have anything to say about it,” he smiled when Jehan finally looked up.

            “That’s the problem,” Jehan said through his tears. “I’m not sure I _don’t_ want to act on them,” Feuilly swallowed hard as Jehan sat up slowly, taking his stubbly cheek in his delicate hand. In hardly a breathless moment, Jehan pressed his lips to Feuilly’s in a quiet, nervous kiss. It lasted only a moment, but it warmed Jehan’s heart, and he smiled meekly as they pulled away.

            “You cannot know how badly I have wished for this,” Feuilly said as he ran a hand through his blonde-red hair.

            “I haven’t been sure what I’ve wished for in a very long time,” Prouvaire replied. “But I think I may be wishing for you,” he rested his head against Feuilly’s broad chest. He looked up and bowed his brows when Feuilly gently pulled away.

            “I’m afraid you are not yourself,” he said sadly. “I fear you have fallen victim to your own desires. I do not want to hurt you,”

            “You won’t,” Prouvaire smiled. “I do not want anything more than this. My body may be craving something more, but my heart…it is content,” Feuilly grinned.

            “Well I would be happy to be whatever you need me to be. Why don’t we take the rest of the day off? I do not want to force you back onto the model stand after…”

            “You’re sure?” he frowned. “I would hate to be a bother…”

            “You are not. Please, get dressed. Meet me in the garden for tea when you’re ready,” he scooted out from under the table with a smile and stood, offering Jehan a hand, which he took happily.

            “Thank you,” he said, standing on his toes and kissing Feuilly’s cheek. “I am lucky to live with such kind people,”

            “And we are lucky to have you,” he said as he turned to go.

 

            “Where is Prouvaire?” Courfeyrac asked with concern when Feuilly returned to the studio room.

            “I released him for the day. He is having a bit of a trying time, I did not want to force him to stand for us when he is feeling so poorly,”

            “Well that is a shame…I hope he is feeling better soon…” Joly said softly, placing a newly sharpened pencil back into his bag. “It is too bad Enjolras is not here. He would tell Jehan it happens all the time…The body is a funny thing. We cannot always control it,”

            “At least I’ve only done the feet…” Bossuet said with a chuckle from beside Joly.

            “I will model, if you’d like,” Eponine offered from where she sat in the corner with her easel. “I don’t mind,”

            “That would be lovely, ‘Ponine,” Bahorel said with a smile, a sparkle in his eye. She smiled, and left the room to disrobe. Feuilly slipped out quietly to join Prouvaire.

            He found him sitting in the small wooden gazebo in the garden, picking snap peas from the twisting vines and eating them absently. He jumped when Feuilly stepped onto the platform, startled, but smiled a moment later.

            “I’ve brought tea!” he smiled, handing Jehan a teacup. He took it with delicate fingers, his cheeks flushed posy pink.

 

They sat in silence for a good while, sipping tea, watching the butterflies as they flitted among the flowers. Feuilly finished his cup and set it down on the bench beside him with a contented sigh.

            “It happens all the time, you know,” he said, “What happened in the studio,”

            “No it doesn’t…” he replied, looking away, thoroughly embarrassed.

            “It does,” Feuilly replied. “The others were just mentioning how they wish Enjolras were here to explain to you. It is just something that happens. It has happened to him dozens of times. It will happen to you again. Nobody is phased. There is nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, Enjolras does it on purpose, sometimes. Particularly when it’s only the men in the studio. They make jokes. In fact, some of it is downright filthy,” he chuckled, and Jehan smiled.

            “I do hope he comes home soon…” Jehan cooed, pushing a strand of his long, red hair behind his ear. “I miss him. He is the only true, close friend I’ve ever had,”

            “He is a good friend to have. He is very kind. And very intelligent.”

            “I think I might be in love with him, if I were not so frightened of Grantaire,” Jehan joked.

            “Grantaire can come across as gruff, but he is very kind, too, when he wants to be. It is a shame he does not want to be more often, but he nearly always means well,” Jehan chuckled.

            “He is very big, is all,”

            “He is very tall,” Feuilly agreed.

            “And I am very…not,” Feuilly laughed.

            “I think you are quite nice looking. You are very sweetly sized, like a tea cake,”

            “I am like a tea cake?!” his laughter intensified, and Feuilly nodded very seriously.

            “You are small and sweet!” Jehan wiped laughter tears from his eyes and leaned against Feuilly’s shoulder.

            “I am quite glad I ran away from the studio,” he said after a long moment of quiet. “Today has gone from quite terrible to quite…alright,”

            “I am very glad, Prouvaire,” he kissed the crown of his head, and Jehan was far happier than he had been in a long time.


	14. Chapter 14

“R,” Enjolras chuckled sleepily as Grantaire pushed the curls from his forehead, planting a kiss there instead.

            “Up! Antoinette is here for your sheets,” the artist said, taking Enjolras’ arms and hoisting him to sitting. Enjolras groaned, his hair all a mess, and pulled the duvet over his shoulders to cover himself, as he was wearing nothing.

            “Again, Young Master Enjolras?” the young woman asked jokingly upon seeing the state of the bed. They had been at the house for nearly ten days, and had coupled at least twice that many times.

            “Terribly sorry, my darling,” Enjolras replied, approaching the maid and giving her a quick peck on the cheek. “I do appreciate it,”

            “It is alright,” she replied with a blush, bustling from the room, sheets in hand.

            “She comes up here every chance she gets,” Grantaire noted as Enjolras dressed.

            “She is in love with me,” Enjolras replied. “She has been since we were little. Her mother worked here since before I was born, and she was born when I was three. She has been infatuated since,”

            “You are horrid, then,”

            “Why am I horrid?”

            “You tease her with half-kisses while requesting she clean up after your love-making, probably the object of her own fantasies. You are a wretched,”

            “I am showing her kindness! A platonic kiss is better than no kiss at all! And I’ve been paying her quadruple what she normally gets! If anyone is wretched, it is my father. He gives them pennies for their work,”

            “I suppose she does bring it on herself,” Grantaire replied. “She insists on coming here when she knows we are together. But you are still a terrible tease,”

            “Do you really think so?” Enjolras asked, concerned. The last thing he wanted to do was mistreat someone, especially the young woman he had known all his life, played with as a child. Grantaire shrugged in reply. “I have to apologize,”

            Before Grantaire could protest, Enjolras was running from the room, tying back his messy hair as he did so.

 

Enjolras hurried down the hall, to one of the hidden doors just before the staircase, the most direct route to the servant’s quarters. He found Antoinette leaning over the washing machine, pushing the lever to quiet the engine when Enjolras entered the room.

            “Antoinette,” he said, obviously distressed. She stood from her stool, as she was instructed to do when someone of authority addressed her, but Enjolras placed a hand on her shoulder and sat her down again.

            “What is the matter? I told you, I was only kidding, I do not mind cleaning the—”

            “No, I came to apologize. I have been horrid to you and haven’t even noticed,” he knelt at her feet, looking up to her. Antoinette thought he looked like a puppy, just punished for chewing the drapes.

            “You are not horrid, Young Master Enjolras,” she replied gently, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, using all her willpower not to run her hands through his golden hair. “You could never be horrid,” she added, more to herself than to him, but he would have none of it.

            “I have been teasing you, and I did not know it, but I realize now, and I wanted to tell you that I am truly, heartily sorry,” Antoinette’s heart leapt. She knew Enjolras meant well, and did not take his gestures to heart, but still thought on them often, his friendly kisses to her cheeks, the way he took her hands when he was glad, how he helped her carry the laundry basket when it was too heavy to carry on her own. She knew it was because he was kind, and not because he cared for her, but she liked to imagine…However, an apology meant so much to her. He did care about her and her feelings, enough to kneel before her and ask forgiveness. She, of course, gave it immediately, reaching for his hand and standing, prompting him to do the same.

            “Of course I forgive you, Young Master Enjolras,” she said with a smile. “I know that you and Monsieur Grantaire love each other dearly. I am glad for you,” she smiled. “I knew all along you were never interested in me. You are only very kind. But please do not stop being kind, you are not teasing. You are being kind. You are so very kind,”

            “You are a good friend, Antoinette,” Enjolras smiled and embraced her warmly. “Thank you,”

            “Anything for Young Master Enjolras,” she grinned, “But go now! It is rude to leave your guest alone!” she gave him a shove towards the door, and he left, glancing over his shoulder and laughing as he did. She waved him away, a blush spreading across her cheeks as he went. She felt tears running down her cheeks, but she was not sad. Not really. If anything, she was overjoyed. Though he did not love her, nobody had ever cared so much about her as Enjolras did. How wonderful the world would be if every young man was like him!  
  
  
  
  
  
Another short one...I felt like adding a short chapter was better than not adding a chapter at all, so....its whatever.


	15. Chapter 15

Jehan woke in the middle of the night, drenched in a cold sweat, his flyaway hair stuck to his forehead and cheeks. His breath came heavily, and frightened tears rolled from his eyes, and the pain…that familiar pain that burned up through his very being, radiating up his spine and back down again to sit deep in his lower abdomen. It burned. It burned as badly as the moment it had happened in that filthy alley nearly two months ago, that dark, disgusting man looming over him, grinding Jehan’s back against the pavement, ripping his shirt and scarring his back, forever reminding him of the night his life ended…a new, brighter one beginning in the morning. He had hoped to forget the life he left behind, but like the scars on his delicate body, the dreams haunted him more often than he would have liked.

            What was most frightening was the pain he felt. Though he knew he had only dreamt it, the pain in his lower back was very real, and it only served to scare him further, pushing him deeper into uncontrollable despair.

            He covered his mouth with his hands to keep from waking the others. Though Enjolras was away, Jehan had another neighbor, and the walls were thin. The last thing he wanted to do was wake Eponine, or Bahorel, for that matter—they had recently started sharing a room—something to do with the bottle of expensive champagne Bahorel purchased in town earlier in the month.

            Though Jehan tried desperately to stifle his cries, he was finding it difficult to contain himself. He decided to leave the house, sit in the garden gazebo for a moment and collect himself in the fresh air, where he wouldn’t wake anybody. He crept from his bedroom, down the stairs, and out the back door, the air pleasantly cool on his clammy skin. When he reached the gazebo, he allowed himself to release the sob he so desperately needed, and shortly began to feel better. For whatever reason, crying gave Jehan a sort of release. After crying terribly for just a few minutes, he found himself completely calm again.

            Though he was outside and away from the main house, Jehan’s quiet crying floated through the open window of the guest house, straight to Feuilly’s bedroom where he lay awake, reading an art history textbook he had traded for some engraving work. He sat up when he heard the whimpers from the garden, and pushed his feet into his slippers, pulling on a robe and heading outside.

            He found Jehan sitting on the bench in the gazebo, one leg pulled to his chest, sitting on the other, wiping away the last of his tears. He saw Feuilly before he reached the gazebo, and gave a little wave.

            “Jehan, what’s wrong?” Feuilly asked as he approached, sitting beside him and taking one of his chilly hands.

            “I’m sorry I woke you,” Jehan replied, offering no answer, his eyes hanging heavily, tired after the commotion in his own mind.

            “What are you doing out here? It’s nearly three in the morning,”

            “Oh, I…I had a dream, and…I mean, I…” he couldn’t find the words, but the simple thought of his painful flashback sent another shooting pain up his back. He winced, and Feuilly stood, taking Jehan’s delicate hands and pulling him close.

            “Come inside with me,” he smiled, removing the elastic from Jehan’s loose ponytail and combing his fingers through his red hair.

            “To your house?” he asked. Feuilly rarely had visitors, and Jehan had just assumed the area was off-limits. Everyone said Feuilly ‘kept to himself’, and it seemed he liked it that way…But now he was being invited inside. He was curious to see how Feuilly lived. Was he neat? Fussy about the way he kept his bed made? Were things strewn about the way Grantaire’s studio always was?

            “Well of course my house! Unless you’d rather go back to bed. I will walk you back inside,”

            “Oh no! I only meant…I just…I’ve never been inside your house before,”

            “It isn’t very exciting, but I’d be honored if you came in for a visit,” he smiled, holding the door for Prouvaire, who stepped inside carefully, noting the squeak of the floorboard.

            When Feuilly flipped the light switch, Jehan was simply enchanted.

            The house was small, and only a single room with a loft. A door in the corner lead out to the old greenhouse Feuilly used as his studio space. An old upholstered sofa sat in the middle of the room, an ancient wooden crate a stand-in as a coffee table. On it sat an empty bowl and spoon, remnants of breakfast. Behind the sofa was a small kitchen, containing only a bucket-like sink and icebox. The loft, which contained a bed and dresser Jehan could see from the door, could be reached by a spiraling staircase. It was neat, but cluttered, and filled with potted plants of every shape and size. Jehan found it simply enchanting.

            “This is my little home!” Feuilly said, spreading his arms wide and smiling brightly. It was then that Jehan noticed he was missing a tooth—one on the bottom, back just far enough that it was invisible normally, but evident when he grinned. Jehan felt a warm blush come to his cheeks, finding this new ‘flaw’ dashing.

            “It is a lovely little home,” Jehan returned the smile, twirling his hair around his fingers as he looked around, his bare feet sticking just slightly to the worn wooden floor.

            “It used to be the barn, back when this was a farm,” he explained. “My bed is in the old hay loft,” he sat on the sofa heavily, the cushions worn and the springs worn out, causing Feuilly to sink down in the seat. He looked to the space beside him, under his arm, then back up to Jehan, inviting him to sit. He did, the dip in the sofa helping to nestle him against Feuilly’s side. He pulled his legs to his chest, and Feuilly’s arm fell around his shoulders, holding him quietly for a long while.

            “Now, why were you out so late in the garden all alone?” he asked gently, nuzzling Jehan’s ear with his nose.

            “A dream…” he began, “a nightmare, I suppose…I was back there, in that alley. Everything was the same, exactly, even waking up the next morning. But you were not there. You did not come, and I…I sat on the sidewalk, but that man—he came back and…he…”

            “Do not say it,” Feuilly stopped him, seeing the discomfort he was causing. “I’m sorry I asked. I’m a curious sort of soul, but it gets me in trouble, sometimes,”

            “don’t be sorry. You haven’t done anything wrong…If anything, you’ve rescued me again!”

            “Well I could not leave you out in the garden! You may look like a flower, but you are not!”

            “I am a very sad flower, then. A wilty one,” Jehan replied with a yawn, his eyes falling heavy as he rested his head against Feuilly’s side.

            “You’d make a beautiful flower, Jehan,” he kissed the crown of his head.

            “Thank you, Darling,” he replied sleepily, his eyes closed. Feuilly looked to the clock in the corner, an old grandfather he had received in lieu of pay from an old church, and found that it was nearly 4:00. When he glanced back down, he found Jehan limp, his small mouth ajar, his breathing slow and even. Feuilly smiled, and stood as slowly and carefully as he could before gingerly lifting Jehan’s bird-like body and carrying him up the spiraling staircase, placing him into his bed and covering him with the thin linen sheets.

“Goodnight, Jehan Prouvaire,” he took his hand for a moment, opened the window just a crack more, the heat in the rafters of the small home oppressive, then made his way down the stairs and to the sofa, where he laid down himself and fell asleep again.

 

Jehan was frightened the next morning upon waking in an unfamiliar bed. This had happened to him before, after a night of either intoxication or drug-induced stupor, and it never ended well. But this felt different…and he soon remembered where he was. He smiled.

            “Good morning, Jehan,” Feuilly cooed as he climbed the stairs, an old wooden tray in his hands. A teacup and a few slices of toast on a china dish balanced on top.

            “Good morning,” he replied quietly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “thank you,” he added as Feuilly set the tray on his lap.

            “Not a problem,” he sat on the edge of the bed with a smile, taking one of the slices of toast and eating it. Prouvaire took one as well.

            “I quite like this jam,” he said with a small grin.

            “I make it,” Feuilly replied. “It’s blackberry, from the bushes back in the woods, near the pond everyone swims in,”

            “You are truly remarkable, my darling,”

            “Not really! It is easy to make!”

            “But you make so many things! You made this jam, you make your sculptures…you made everything here!” he rested his head on Feuilly’s shoulder. “And I love all of it,”

            “And I love all of you, everyone here who helped me make all of it. This place would be nothing without all of you, the artists, the models, everyone. You are the family I never had,”

            “And you are mine,”

            “It is a good thing we found each other, then,”

            “I would say so!” he craned his neck, giving Feuilly a kiss on his scruffy chin, Feuilly turning his head to meet him for a proper kiss.

            “I am so glad you’re happy here, Prouvaire,” he smiled, revealing his missing tooth again. “You, of all people, deserve it,”

            “I am happy,” he replied ,finishing his toast and laying back on the bed. “I’m the happiest I’ve been in a very long while,” Feuilly pushed his bright hair back from his forehead.

 

 

 

 

 

Fun fact: Feuilly won the 'best jam award' at the local fair.  The prize ribbon is hanging in his studio.  Don't tell anybody.  It's a secret.


	16. Chapter 16

On the eleventh evening of their stay, Enjolras was called from the bedroom where he sat, reading, while Grantaire painted his mother. Jacques appeared at the door, and Enjolras turned, slightly startled.

            “Yes?” he asked, placing the mark in his book.

            “Your father has requested your company in the garden,” he replied dutifully, though Enjolras could tell he wished he were delivering any other message.

            “Oh…may I ask why?” he asked, standing and tucking in his shirt, then approaching the dresser and combing his hair in the mirror above. His father would not tolerate his state of dishevelment.  

            “I’m not sure. He only asked that I come to get you,”

            “Alright…” he sighed, telling himself he was only irritated…but he was frightened. What could his father possibly want him for? He had been avoiding him since he had arrived, hardly speaking to him. But now he wished to see him? To talk? Or only to berate him? It was hard to say… “Tell him I’ll be down in just a minute,” Jacques nodded and left, closing the door behind him. Enjolras ran his hands down his ponytail, took a few deep breaths, then headed down to the garden.

 

Enjolras found his father where Jacques said he would, sitting in one of the many gazebos in the garden with a glass of brandy—his favorite. Before Enjolras could say anything, his father stood.

            “Sit,” he said simply, returning to his own seat when Enjolras complied. He sat silently, his head down, watching his father carefully with icy blue eyes.

            “Would you like a glass?” the man offered, showing the bottle of brandy to his son.

            “No, thank you,” Enjolras replied quietly, turning and looking out over the garden, unsure what to do. He wished Grantaire were with him…he was braver when he was there.

            “You used to enjoy it,” the father said, taking a sip.

            “I’ve lost my taste for it, I suppose,” he replied, looking back to his lap.

            “René, what have you been doing, these past three years?”

            “I’ve told you,”

            “you have truly been working for a group of vagabond artists?”

            “They are not vagrants,”

            “What have they been paying you?”

            “Enough,” The father sighed heavily.

            “René I cannot have you living this way. Look at you, look what you’re wearing. Those trousers are quite obviously home-made, your shoes are scuffed. And your hair is wild! You cannot present yourself this way. But I blame myself. I must not have taught you well enough. Anyway, what I am trying to say is that I would like you to come back home. To stay, I mean,”

            “Oh…” he replied after a long moment, thinking. Wasn’t this what he wanted? Didn’t he want to be welcomed back home, back to his old life? He could have whatever he wanted, anything he wished: clothes, shoes, the finest foods and lavish holidays. But that isn’t what he wanted. Not really. Not anymore.

            “I…No. No, thank you,”

            “No?” M. Enjolras said sharply, tightening his grip on his glass, his fingertips turning white. “But why?”

            “I have a life I’d like to return to. But thank you. I do appreciate it, truly,”

            “I will not allow you to return,” Enjolras’ calm was suddenly all but lost. He did not enjoy being told what to do, and certainly would not tolerate being held captive in his old home.

            “Why? You wished me gone, so I left. Now you want me to stay? You cannot change your mind on a whim and expect me to uproot my entire life!”

            “You are my child—!”

            “I am not a child!

            “You are being selfish! Do you have any idea how this affects your mother? We only want you to have a good future,”

            “I will have a good future. I’m on my own, I’m working, I have a home,”

            “You have no future so long as you’re…so long as you’re involved with Monsieur Grantaire,” Enjolras sighed. Of course, that’s what this was about.

            Instead of becoming immediately angry, Enjolras decided it best to try something different. He took another deep breath, remaining calm instead of becoming fiery. After thinking for a long moment, he looked up, a sad glaze over his bright eyes.

            “I am so sorry that my preferences have such a terrible impact on your lives,” he began. “I am truly stuck, and I do not know what to do,” he admitted honestly. His father’s stony gaze softened. “I do want you to be proud of me,” Enjolras choked back tears. He did not dare cry in front of his father, not ever. “But I am not in a position to sacrifice my own happiness to do so. Maybe I am being selfish…but I must act in self-preservation. I could never be happy here because I could never be who I truly am, and neither you or I can change that. Cut me off again, if you’d like, or don’t. Either way, I will gladly be returning to the colony with Grantaire.”

            “You would live in squalor for him?”

            “I would die for him.” The father seemed pained at this remark, and looked away momentarily.

            “Your mother hoped you would at least visit,”

            “I will, if you’d like,” he smiled, “But I will not be changing myself. I can’t.” His father sighed.

            “I suppose I cannot ask any more of you,” he replied after a long moment.

            “You could come to me as well, if you’d like to. The colony is beautiful, truly, and everyone there is unbelievably talented. Maybe you would find another artist you like. Just because they are not celebrated in the Paris Salon does not mean they are not worthy of commission. And they are all so kind,” he smiled for a moment.

            “It isn’t a wonder why you’d like to go back. It sounds like they care for you as you are…That is more than can be said of here,” Enjolras wasn’t sure what to say. It was true, but as much as he butted heads with his father, he did not want to upset him. Not truly.

            “They’re my friends. I didn’t have many as a child,”

            “Well, I am glad you’ve found some. I hope you’ve started packing, Grantaire is nearly finished,”

            “Yes…We are heading back tomorrow. But I think we might come again, if that’s alright,” he smiled, and his father did the same.

            “I think that might be a good idea,” he stood, and Enjolras did the same. They walked back to the house together.

 

Grantaire arrived in the bedroom later that evening, after it had gotten dark. When he didn’t see Enjolras, he was a touch confused, but soon heard a delicate voice singing, and followed it into the attached bathroom. There, he found Enjolras, sitting in the massive, marble bathtub, everything but his beautiful face and glossy curls obscured by pearlescent bubbles. And he was singing.

            Enjolras was always surprising Grantaire. Though he modeled, Grantaire discovered quickly that he was also a talented artist, and drew well with pencils. He recently discovered that Enjolras was also a somewhat talented musician, and though he could not read notes well, he could play most anything on the piano simply by listening. He was also incredibly intelligent, and loved to read. He was the sort of person Grantaire would have hated as a child, would have accused of being too perfect. But did he not think the same thing now? Enjolras was perfect. Perfect for him. Yes, he was plagued by constant attacks of anxiety, bouts of depression, and dizziness. He was just a tad too small for the average 23 year old. But he was talented. He was smart and kind and headstrong. And Grantaire loved him.

            And now he was also a singer!  
            The song was a familiar one, and instead of startling Enjolras, he began to quietly sing along, growing progressively louder until Enjolras heard him and looked up with a goofy, embarrassed grin.

            “You could act in operas,” he said, sitting on the edge of the tub.

            “I’d be too nervous,” Enjolras replied.

            “you’re beautiful,” he ran his hand through Enjolras’ lathery hair.

            “Come in with me,” he smiled, and Grantaire grinned, quickly stripping and joining him in the massive marble tub.

            “I haven’t taken a bath in a very long time,” Grantaire said as he slipped into the water, taking Enjolras’ shoulders and turning him around, so he could lean against his chest. Enjolras’ hummed approvingly, resting his head back against R’s shoulder, nuzzling his scruffy chin.

            “I quite enjoy baths,” he replied.

            “Yes I know. You take them all the time back home,”  
            “It is a shame the tub is so small, there. We could do this more often,”

            “Well, then it would not be so…special,” he reached around Enjolras’ trim frame and slipped his hand down his smooth chest, resting his palm just above his naval.

            “I wish we could stay here forever,” he added

            “Why would you want to stay here? Everything is so…particular. You must be a certain way when you’re here…” Enjolras replied.

            “Not if it were just you and I. If we had the entire place to ourselves, nobody else,”

            “Being anywhere alone with you would be lovely,” he reached up and around, running his soapy hand down the side of Grantaire’s neck, “but I do think I would miss the others…” Grantaire grinned.

            “There is no gossip for you to keep up with here,” he replied

            “Be quiet,” he turned himself around and pressed his chest to R’s, giving him a kiss before he could say anything else. But he didn’t need to. His interest was made evident in another very obvious way. Enjolras gave him a cheeky grin.

            “Would you do me a favor, my darling?” he asked. Grantaire raised his eyebrows, and Enjolras smiled. “Wash my back,” he turned around again, looking to Grantaire over his shoulder.

            “oh course,” he replied, “But I cannot guarantee my hands will stay on your back,”

            “A chance I am willing to take,” Grantaire chuckled lightly, showing his uneven teeth that Enjolras found simply enchanting.

            “Are you ready to go home?” Grantaire asked as he ran a washcloth over his shoulders.

            “I think so,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about Jehan…I worry for him,”

            “I’d bet he’s alright. I’m sure Feuilly is taking very good care of him,”

            “What do you mean?” Enjolras asked. Grantaire bowed his eyebrows.  
            “You of all people should have realized by now that Feuilly is completely and totally enamored with our little Jehan Prouvaire,”

            “Did he tell you that?”

            “His mouth has not, but the rest of him has. I suppose you don’t see him drawing Jehan, as you are obviously not in the room, so I suppose it might have slipped your attention,”

            “And what does Jehan think?” Enjolras asked.

            “Nothing, so far. I doubt he knows. Feuilly keeps scarce most of the time, you know how he is, but when Jehan is modeling, he blushes like a schoolgirl and cannot wipe the grin from his face. It’s quite comical, actually,”

            “Hm, interesting,” Enjolras said, standing and taking the towel from the bar on the wall. He dried himself, then pulled on a pair of thin cotton shorts to sleep in. “We will have to see how this story has progressed in the past ten days,”

            “Or you could be a _normal_ person and leave it alone. You are not Jehan’s keeper,”

            “But I feel like I am,” he replied, tossing Grantaire another towel. “He trusts me…only me, it seems, sometimes. And he is my friend. I am concerned for him,”

            “Well, you will be back to tend him tomorrow,” he held Enjolras, their warm, damp bodies sticky from the precipitation.

            “I do not _tend_ him,”

            “Whatever you say, Apollo,” he kissed the bridge of his nose.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
woo

  
Comments make me so happy it's actually sort of sad.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alcohol CW, TW

Excitement was an understatement for Jehan’s reaction to Enjolras and Grantaire’s return. He was the first out the door when the cab arrived in the driveway, and leapt into Enjolras’ arms, nearly knocking them both to the ground when he did so. After saying their greetings, Jehan helped Enjolras carry his bags back up to his bedroom, and sat on the bed while he put his things away.

            “Was it terrible?” Jehan asked as Enjolras folded his clothes.

            “It was not,” he replied. “Awkward, perhaps, but not terrible. My mother and father invited us back to visit, actually. It was a nice surprise,” he smiled to himself, and Jehan grinned.

            “I missed you so much,” Jehan admitted after a long moment. “I was very lonely without you,”

            “Really?” Enjolras said with a smirk. “I heard you found good company with a certain Monsieur Feuilly,” Jehan blushed.

            “Oh, I don’t…I mean—”

            “I’ve told you a thousand times, my darling, I know everything,”

            “But how?” Jehan chuckled. “You weren’t even here!”

            “I have ways,” he finished unpacking his trunk and sat beside Jehan on the bed. “But tell me, is he lovely?”

            “He is lovely,” he replied quietly, shyly. “Nobody has ever…ever made me…so happy as he does, just by being there,”

            “that is what it feels like to be in love,”

            “I’ve never felt that before. It’s strange…like thousands of little birds fluttering about inside you,”

            “have you even kissed him yet?!” Enjolras laughed. Jehan was talking like a giddy schoolgirl.

            “Yes of course I have!” he tossed back.

            “Have you done anything _else_?”

            “No…I mean…Enjolras, I want to, I want to so badly, but I’m so afraid…”

            “why? I mean, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, but it isn’t anything to be frightened of,”

            “It’s just that…I’ve never actually…everyone I’ve ever…been with…just sort of…pays up and leaves,”

            “I promise you, Feuilly would never just leave,” Enjolras replied. “He is one of the most respectable fellows I know. But that doesn’t mean you have to do anything. As long as both of you are content, it doesn’t matter much,” he shrugged. Flopping down on the bed, dizzy.

            “I suppose so. Perhaps I need a little longer to…collect myself,” he replied. “Are you alright?” he looked to Enjolras.

            “Oh yes, only dizzy, nothing a nap won’t fix!” he smiled and closed his eyes.

            “Oh alright,” Jehan stood, “feel better!” he cooed as he left the room, wandering down the stairs, finding nobody about.

            It was Saturday, everybody’s day off, and most everyone was out of the house. Even Feuilly, who typically kept to himself, was out with the others in town. Jehan had been asked to accompany Feuilly, Bahorel, Bossuet, and Joly to the local art supply shop, but Jehan decided against it, opting to stay and catch up with Enjolras instead. Going into town always made him nervous, and he really just wanted a quiet day at home. Marius and Cosette were out with Cosette’s father, and Eponine was probably sleeping—she stayed up late most nights.

On his way to the kitchen for a snack, however, he found Grantaire’s door ajar, and couldn’t help but peek inside.

            Though he had been given the privilege of viewing Grantaire’s studio space, he had never seen his bedroom before. Grantaire kept very private, most of the time, but Jehan remembered Enjolras saying something about Grantaire collecting Japanese prints, and was quite interested to see. He knocked gently on the cracked door. Grantaire raised his head from where he folded clothes on the floor.

            “Yes?” he called. Jehan peered around the door.

            “Hello,” he replied simply.

            “What do you need?” he asked. Jehan stepped inside.

            “Oh nothing, I just…I mean…Enjolras said you had—um—prints. Japanese prints, I mean, and I…I just wanted to see, if that’s alright,” he babbled, remembering what Enjolras had told him a while ago. He had said to ask R to see his collection, and now was as good a time as ever. Though he knew Grantaire rather well, he still found him terribly intimidating, and was honestly a bit frightened of him, though he had never even really seen him angry before.

            “Sure,” Grantaire said with a small smile. “Most of them are hanging. There are a few more under the dresser, though, I don’t have room to hang all of them,” Jehan perused the room, looking to the woodblock prints, admiring the delicacy, the faces of the people, the intricacy of the patterned kimonos. Even the leaves on the trees were all perfectly articulated.

            “They’re beautiful,” he said quietly.

            “They are. I quite like them,” Grantaire replied. “I like how everything is made of solid shapes. I’d like to try painting like that…” he paused, “some time,”

            “Why not now?”

            “Can’t. I have to keep working on salon pieces, commissions…”

            “Why don’t you take some time off to do what you’d like? I mean, I don’t want to be rude, but I’m sure you have enough money…”

            “hm,” he grunted in reply, returning to his folding, seeming like he didn’t want to meet Jehan’s eyes.       

            “There are more under the dresser?” Jehan asked, trying to change the subject.

            “Yes, they’re in the paper bag,” he explained. Jehan crouched and placed his cheek on the floor, looking under the dresser, which sat diagonally across the back corner of the room. He found the bag easily and pulled it out, but something caught his eye when he did. Behind the dresser, in the space in the corner, Jehan could see glass…the bottoms of bottles. Bottles with expensive labels. And they were all at different levels of fullness. Jehan sat up, the color drained from his face. He was not supposed to have seen that. He wasn’t even supposed to know Grantaire had a drinking problem.

            R knew what Jehan had seen immediately upon seeing his face, and took the paper bag from his hands, shoving it back under the dresser hurriedly before grinding his teeth and looking away.

            “You should leave,” he said shortly.

            “R I didn’t…I mean…do you need help?” he asked.

            “Get out!” he shouted, pointing to the door. Jehan jumped at his shout and left as quickly as he could, but just as he was closing the door, Grantaire grabbed his skinny arm in a massive hand. When he turned, Grantaire’s face was just inches from his own.

            “Don’t you tell a living soul,” he growled. Jehan nodded, tears in his eyes, and Grantaire released him roughly, closing the door and locking the latch. Jehan stood stone still for a moment, unsure what to do. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and decided it best to go out to the garden to collect himself.

 

Jehan sat in the gazebo, picking snap peas and eating them absently, thinking. Enjolras knew everything. He always knew exactly what was happening, who was doing what with whom, and both sides of every argument. And yet he was completely clueless about the one person he was closest with.

What was he to do? Enjolras was his best friend, Enjolras trusted him, confided in him, told Jehan everything. Shouldn’t Jehan return the favor? Didn’t he deserve to know? But Grantaire was simply so intimidating, frightening. He could murder Jehan easily with his bare hands, should he choose, and if Enjolras confronted R, which Jehan knew he would should he find out, Grantaire would know Jehan had told.

 _Enjolras knows everything,_ Jehan reminded himself. _And what he doesn’t know, he finds out. Maybe he already knows…_ he thought to himself. But perhaps he really didn’t. Then what? Oh why did he have to look at those paintings! But it wasn’t his fault, Grantaire told him to—A million thoughts raced through his head, and they overflowed. His eyes began to tear again, and he hugged his legs to his chest.  


—o0o—

 

Grantaire sat on his bed after shutting the door on poor Jehan. What was he doing? Destroying his life, that’s what he was doing. Things had been going so well, too! He hadn’t had anything since last summer. But then something changed. He didn’t feel himself anymore…

            Grantaire was a very imaginative person. What he lacked in outward warmth and tact, he made up for ten-fold in creativity. But he had no way to use it.

            Yes, he was an artist. He made his living creating. But he lived in the vast gulf between ‘creating’ and ‘creativity’, one simple, redundant, and expected, the other true bliss. A bliss he could not reach. Not so long as he wished to remain successful. His pieces needed to fit a certain set of standards in order to be accepted into the prestigious salon, and he needed to keep his place there to continue to live the way he did. If he were to be rejected, he would fall out of favor with the masses, his income would dry up in a hurry—paint is expensive—and he would be forced into a position of poverty and depression, which would most likely end his life. His only option was to continue painting the same thing, endlessly, day after day: complete realism, with a touch of fantasy…masculine fantasy, of course. The figure, adjusted just so to be the image of perfection, with pale skin and supple curves. Women. Women were always popular, as were flowers. Therefore many of his pieces featured Enjolras with his back turned, to more easily emulate a young women, surrounded by floral imagery, or on a sofa or bed. Drapery was always a hit. But it was all the same. It was all just a formula. How he wished to truly create, create something he loved. But he did not have the time, between the commissions and submissions to the salon. And creating a formulaic fop of a painting was better than creating nothing at all…

            That’s where the absinthe came in.

Grantaire had been completely sober for over a year. After getting completely wasted at an art show opening Feuilly held at the colony, Enjolras had given him an ultimatum. He had completely embarrassed himself, and Enjolras, in front of many distinguished guests, and Enjolras would have none of it. He had helped Grantaire in the past, only allowing him one spirit at a time, or none at all, but he was finished. He told Grantaire he could continue his drinking, but he would no longer have the privilege of his company. Grantaire had taken it very hard, and hadn’t had a drink since…not until Just a few weeks ago.

It started on Pentecost Monday, after making Greek dinner for everyone. It was tradition to follow dinner with just a bit of Ouzo, a licorice-tasting liquor, and he couldn’t pass it up…It felt wrong. But after having a bit, he had a little bit more…and then a not-so-little bit more. And things went straight to hell after that. But he had been hiding it very well, never getting drunk enough to appear sloppy, but enough to feel good. To feel _creative_. But because of his past abuse, it took a considerable amount of alcohol to get him to feel anything at all. He could finish an entire bottle of absinth in a few hours and hardly bat an eye. That’s why he had so many bottles stashed in his bedroom.

He brushed his teeth incessantly to keep the alcohol off his breath, and it seemed to work, for Enjolras hadn’t noticed yet, and he hoped to keep it that way. But Prouvaire was close with Enjolras…closer than Grantaire would have liked. He was quite possessive, but knew Enjolras was headstrong and independent…He would not tolerate any sort of controlling aspect of a relationship, so Grantaire chose his battles. But now he was worried. Prouvaire would tell him. He knew it, and he only hoped he had frightened Jehan enough to keep silent.

After hardly a moment, there was another knock on R’s door, and before he could answer, Enjolras peered around, concern on his face.

“I heard the door slam,” he said, sitting beside Grantaire on the bed. “What’s the matter? Did Prouvaire come in to see your prints?” he leaned back on the bed, still dizzy.

“He did,” he replied, reclining and running a hand through Enjolras’ hair. How he loved him…he needed him…But he needed absinth the way a fish needs water. Why did he have to choose? To anyone else, the choice would be simple—Charming, loving, _perfect_ Enjolras. But no one could ever understand.

“What’s the matter, then?” he ran his gentle fingers over Grantaire’s cheek. R grit his teeth. He would tell Enjolras himself before he found out another way…perhaps then he would be forgiven. Perhaps asking for help would portray more responsibility than keeping secrets.

“I’ve done something horrible,” he sat up, looking away.

“What have you done?” Enjolras asked, sitting up as well. He took one of Grantaire’s hands from where they rested in his lap and held it gently, running his smooth, pale fingers over R’s knuckles.

“I’m afraid if I tell you, you’d leave me,”

“You can tell me anything, my darling,” he replied. “There is nothing in this world you could do to make me stop loving you,” he smiled sweetly, resting his head in the crook of Grantaire’s neck, his hair tangling in R’s whiskers. He sighed heavily.

“I need help,”

“I’ll help you,” Grantaire stood and walked to the dresser in the corner, reaching behind it and retrieving two of the five bottles, one in each hand. He turned so Enjolras could see, and watched as his cheeks became a hot red.

“I thought you stopped,” he said, trying hard to stay calm. He was livid, and felt completely betrayed.

“I did…” he sighed “But then I started again…”

“When?” he snapped, his words short, painfully staccato, and Grantaire felt tears sting his eyes for the first time in a very, very long time. He felt like a child being scolded, but not the sort of scolding that is typical of so many mothers and fathers. It was not sharp and fast like a belt to the backside, or lonely like being trapped in a locked bedroom without supper. It was the sort of slow, sticky dread that comes when your father looks deep into your eyes and tells you he’s very disappointed, or when your mother sheds a tear because you should have known better…because you did know better…because _you_ knew you knew better.

“Pentecost Monday,” he admitted. Enjolras pressed his lips into a line.

“Is that all of it?” he asked, shaking, his voice rattling in a boiling mixture of anger and betrayal and _love._

“No,” he retrieved the other three bottles and set them on the dresser with the others. “And there’s a handle of whisky behind the headboard.” Enjolras reached behind the bed and lifted the glass bottle by the handle. He held it for a moment in his lap before standing and lifting the half-empty bottle above his head and smashing it on the ground with a shout that rattled Grantaire’s soul, shaking the tears from his eyes. He flinched when the glass shattered on the ground, spilling a shimmering puddle of whisky onto the floor, between the boards and under the furniture.

“I hate this stuff,” Enjolras said, his voice cracking with tears. “It ruins everything,” he sounded like a child, his voice high and so, so sad. It was almost physically painful to listen to. Grantaire stepped over the spreading puddle and took Enjolras into his arms, holding him tight, and to his surprise, Enjolras did not push him away. Instead, he returned the embrace, Grantaire’s nose in his hair.

“No more,” he murmured against the crown of his golden head. “Not ever.”

“Not ever,” Enjolras replied into R’s chest.


	18. Chapter 18

            “He told you, then?” Jehan asked that night as he sat on his bed, his long, red hair twisted in a towel. Enjolras nodded sadly, rubbing at the bandage wrapped around his hand—he had cut it badly cleaning up the broken bottle in Grantaire’s room. “Now what?”

            “I’m going to help him…make sure I’m with him…make sure he doesn’t start up again,”

            “But what about you?” he replied.

            “What do you mean?”

            “You need to look after yourself, too. You’ll make yourself sick tending to R all the time,”

            “He doesn’t need tending, just…someone to be with him…I’ll be alright,”

            “Alright…”

            “Just worry over yourself, Jehan. You worry so much for others, you forget about yourself,”

            “The same could be said of you,”

            “No…I’m fine…I’m going to head to bed now, if you don’t mind,”

            “With Grantaire?” he nodded, shaking the tie from his hair, raking his fingers through his curls, and tying it again to the top of his head. “Good night, then,” he smiled.

            “Goodnight, Jehan,” Enjolras replied as he left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. He took the large volume off his night table and opened it to where he had marked his page. Reading always calmed him when he was worried…

 

—o0o—

 

Grantaire was sitting on the floor looking at a painting leaning against the wall when Enjolras pushed the door open quietly, knocking on the frame to alert R to his presence. He looked up, his eyes and cheeks red and raw. He had been crying again. He quickly looked away again, pressing his lips into a line, wiping his eye on his shoulder. Enjolras sat beside him.

            “I quite like this one,” he said gently, admiring the painting. It wasn’t anything Grantaire could sell or put in the salon…perhaps that’s why Enjolras liked it so much. It gave just a little glimpse of Grantaire’s true talent, his passion. It was a portrait of Enjolras, simple, facing straight ahead, but his hair was unusually bright. Though it was still obviously the correct, golden blonde, R had added his own touches to the lights and shadows, with touches of unexpected color here and there: the underside of a curl a deep blue, the inside of a pipe alternating red and purple. Though it was small, it was striking.

            “It’s you,” Grantaire replied, almost sadly…definitely sadly.

            “I know it is,” he replied. “But that isn’t why I like it,”

            “Then why do you like it?”

            “Because there’s ‘you’ in it, too,”

            “What do you mean?”

            “The hair,” he replied, “it’s so colorful. More so than your other paintings. Even the cheeks are rosier and happier. It’s a happy painting,”

            “Well that is surprising…My work tends to reflect my own feelings, and I am certainly not happy,”

            “You did this just now?”

            “In the past few hours,”

            “But it is so perfect. How did you do it without me here to look at? And with such an expression on my face…I’ve never seen a painting of someone so happy like this,”

            “I know what you look like,” he explained with a small smile that Enjolras was happy to see. “No matter what expression you have, I know it. I could paint you even if I were blind,”

            “I would be out of a job!” Enjolras joked.

            “I would hire you to sit beside me anyway. I would pay to simply be in your presence,” he paused, “though I do not feel I deserve your kindness, even if I were to pay for it,”

            “You do,” Enjolras replied, taking the paintbrush from his hand and setting it gently on the small desk in the corner. He took R’s hands in his, pulled him to standing, lacing their fingers, Enjolras’ long and thin, pale, R’s thick and strong, and colored with paint. They were quiet for a long moment, before Grantaire sat down on the bed, taking Enjolras with him.

            “Your hands are so dainty,” he noted, untangling their fingers and playing with Enjolras’ thumb, bending it absently. “I wonder how they stay put together without breaking,”

            “You of all people should know I am stronger than I look!”

            “That only makes it more puzzling to me! You are so small, and yet you hold your own in a world that seems far too big for you,” he grinned.

            “I am not that small, Grantaire!” Enjolras retorted. His height had always been something of a sore subject. He had always been tiny, as a child, and even still in adulthood.

            “And tell me, how tall are you, Enjolras?”

            “I am 5 foot 6 inches, 164 centimeters!”

            “164 centimeters would make you 5 foot FIVE inches, Enjolras,” he replied, laughing heartily, which made Enjolras smile. He was glad the sadness had gone from Grantaire’s face. He rolled back on the bed, unable to contain himself.

            “shush, you!” Enjolras joked, giving him a whack on the arm.

            “Come here!” R took Enjolras’ shoulders in his hands and pulled him down so he laid with his head against his chest, finally stopping his laughter and taking a deep breath, letting his head flop back onto the mattress, his feet hanging off the end of the bed—Grantaire was far too tall for it, but he hadn’t much choice. He combed his hand through his golden curls. “I have never loved anyone as much as I love you,” he said, reaching up and turning off the lamp on the bedside table, the moon casting a pale puddle on the floor under the window. Enjolras snuggled up against Grantaire’s side, his hand on his chest, snaked under his shirt. He sighed.

            “I know why you’re in here,” he said quietly.

            “Because I love you dearly. Because we typically spend the night together,”

            “Because you’re afraid I’ll drink,”

            “Well, I—”

            “You’re a terrible liar,” he turned his head and kissed the bridge of his freckly nose.

            “I don’t want anything to happen to you. Alcohol changes you. It’s like you’re someone else. I don’t want to lose _this_ you. I love this you,”

            “I promise you I won’t. Not ever again, I swear,”

            “You said that last time…I mean, I understand it is an addiction, and I do not blame you, but—”

            “This time I’m serious,” he replied. “I’d do anything for you. I would throw myself in front of a speeding train if you wished it. This is nothing. Please don’t worry. I don’t want you to worry over me. I don’t want you to worry over anything,”

            “I love you so,”

            “I love you too, Apollo,” he replied as Enjolras’ eyes fluttered shut. Grantaire smiled as he slept. His face seemed so childlike when he was like this.

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

Enjolras took a walk the next morning to clear his head. He was just a touch dizzy, and hoped the fresh air would do him some good.

            It seemed everyone in the house but him realized that his dizziness was brought on by anxiety, and not some sort of chronic illness, as Enjolras suspected. Either way, a walk typically helped, and goodness did he need one.

            He spent most of the past night awake, worried over Grantaire. Fearful of waking him with his tossing and turning, he crept from the bed and sat on the chair in the corner, one he had modeled in many times, just for Grantaire. Those were his favorite times, when Grantaire dragged the chair into the studio and told him only to ‘look pretty’. Those modeling sessions almost always ended in lovemaking, leaving Enjolras covered in paint smears here and there, his hair all a mess, his cheeks rubbed red from Grantaire’s stubbly chin.

            He thought of those times, as he sat, thinking. _R was probably drunk the last time we slept together,_ he sighed, pulling his knees to his chest and resting his head on his arms, exhausted, but unable to quiet his mind. _Was he drunk every time? Does he only tolerate me when he’s inebriated?_ He ran a hand through his hair. That couldn’t be true…could it? Faced with Enjolras or all the absinth in the world, Enjolras wasn’t exactly confident R would choose him. He hadn’t in the past…

            He contemplated that question now, as he walked, if Grantaire really, truly cared for him, or if he just needed babysitting and Enjolras fit the bill. Yes, they shared kind words and a physical connection, but perhaps that was only meeting a need as well. Was R drinking now? This was the only time he had been without Enjolras since yesterday, besides drawing Jehan earlier this morning. He sighed. He could hardly take care of himself, what business did he have looking out for Grantaire as well? He didn’t…other than that he loved him dearly, more than he had ever loved anyone. And Enjolras did not fall in love easily.

            Upon returning to the house, he found Grantaire sitting at the kitchen table, reading his mail.

            Due to his fame, Grantaire received many letters, requests, commissions, the occasional love note, which he would in turn read to Enjolras for a laugh…But today there was a special envelope, one Grantaire had been waiting for, for some weeks.

           “Have you been accepted to the Salon this year?” Enjolras asked, placing his chin on Grantaire’s shoulder. He nodded absently, his head pounding. He felt like he had a hangover, though ironically, it was caused by the lack of alcohol, not excess.

            “Which painting?”

            “That small one of Jehan,” he replied. Enjolras felt his face become hot, though he wasn’t sure why. He hated the Salon and what it stood for, and he wished Grantaire would not submit to it every year, but every year he did, and every year, a painting of Enjolras hung on the walls for the entire world to see. But not this year. This year, Jehan would be in his place. He stood up.

            “What’s the matter?” Grantaire asked, standing from his chair and wrapping Enjolras in his strong arms.

            “Nothing,” he replied, sighing deeply, taking in Grantaire’s warm scent.

            “I know you don’t like the salon—”

            “It doesn’t matter. I’m not in the painting anyway, why would I care?” he tried to sound aloof, indifferent, but Grantaire saw through him. Enjolras was not a good liar.

            “I threw it in on a whim. I was so sure one of my submissions of you would be chosen. I swear the judges just pull randomly, sometimes,”

            “They don’t, I’m sure. It was a beautiful painting,” he replied, though jealousy still sat in the bottom of his stomach like a lead weight.

            “Not nearly as beautiful as the ones of you,”

            “You could make the most hideous monster on earth into something beautiful,”

            “That’s why I don’t paint self portraits,” he joked. Enjolras looked up at him and smiled.

            “I’m sorry…I’m not usually one to get jealous,”

            “You have nothing to worry over,” Grantaire smiled, releasing him with a sigh. “The Salon may waver, but I will always love you,” he ran a hand through his inky curls. “I think I’m going to lay down, if you don’t mind, I’m not feeling all that well,”

            “Can I get anything for you?”

            “I’ll get myself a glass of water,”

            “No, I will. Go lay down.” he stood on his tiptoes and kissed his stubbled cheek.

 

After bringing Grantaire his glass of water, Enjolras sat on the bed, holding Grantaire’s hand.

            “Why are you so dreary today, my dear?” R asked, noting Enjolras’ wilt-y demeanor. “Still the Salon? I’ll pull my entry, if it would make you feel better,”

            “No. It isn’t that. How are you feeling?”

            “Quite horrid, but it will go away…probably in a week or two, once this terrible withdraw ends,”

            “This is from not drinking,” Enjolras noted. Grantaire nodded.

            “I’ve been through it before, I’ll make it this time,” he smiled, sitting up and meeting Enjolras for a kiss.

            “I was wondering,” he began after a long moment of silence, Grantaire laying back on the pillow.

            “Wondering what, Apollo?”

            “Wondering if…if you will still tolerate my company when you are no longer intoxicated,” his cheeks turned a rosy shade, and he looked away. Grantaire furrowed his brow.

            “Well, to begin, I have never ‘ _tolerated_ ’ you, I love you dearly, I truly enjoy your company, whether drunk or otherwise. Second, there will never come a time when I will not want you. My greatest fantasy is to spend every moment with you, with nobody else to interrupt,” Enjolras chuckled.

            “Really?”

            “Most certainly. I want nothing more in the world than a day with you, uninterrupted by Jehan, or Feuilly, or Marius and his relationship woes, or Joly and his thermometer, or anyone. Nobody.”

            “You’re horrible!” Enjolras joked, flopping down beside him on the bed, feeling completely idiotic for even entertaining the thought that Grantaire didn’t care for him.

            “Yes I know, but I’m _your_ horrible,”

            “And I wouldn’t have you any other way,” he smiled, just snuggling up against Grantaire, when there was a knock at the front door.

 

Courfeyrac reached the door first, and found a delivery man standing in the doorway.

            “I’m here for monsieur Grantaire,” he said, holding a clip board in his hands. Grantaire emerged from the bedroom, raking a hand through his hair.

            “I’ve brought your—”

            “Shh!” Grantaire held up a finger, silencing the man. “It’s a surprise!” he looked back to Enjolras, who stood just behind him. “Apollo, upstairs, I’ll tell you when you can come down. No peeking,” he winked. Enjolras rolled his eyes and hurried up the stairs.

            “What is it?” Courfeyrac asked with a grin.

            “What about ‘surprise’ did you not understand?” R replied.

            “Well it’s not for me,”

            “How can you be so sure?” R signed the clipboard, and the man returned to the large truck.

            “It can’t be for me!”

            “It’s for the house,”

            “What is it?” he asked again.

            “Go away and maybe you will get to see sooner!” Courfeyrac groaned. He was horribly impatient and very curious.

            “Fine! I’ll go find Combeferre,” he trudged away.

 

A bit later, Grantaire called Enjolras downstairs. He nearly cried when he saw: In the middle of the large foyer space was a grand piano, the top propped open and the copper colored strings visible and gleaming. On the piano bench sat a Martin guitar, the wood honey colored, flowers and vines of inlaid wood and mother-of-pearl decorating the front. A polished tortoise shell pick guard sat perfectly beside glistening strings.

            “Grantaire,” Enjolras breathed, hardly able to speak. He fell in for a hug as Courfeyrac, Jehan, and Joly came out of their rooms to investigate.

            “What’s this?” Joly asked with a smile.

            “I thought a bit of music was in order,” he replied.

            “Do you play?” Courfeyrac asked, running his fingers carefully across the ivory keys, trying one out gently, the sound reverberating around the large room.

            “I don’t,” he said, looking to Enjolras, “But Apollo does,”

            “I told you not to,” Enjolras whispered in reply. “I don’t need it—”

            “I needed it,” he smiled, “I missed your playing. I was spoiled at your parent’s house,” he kissed his nose.

            “This guitar is beautiful,” Feuilly said, sitting on the piano bench beside Jehan. Feuilly had a way of just appearing places. People rarely saw him enter a space. He just slipped in quietly. He strummed it.

            “Do you play?” Jehan asked, leaning against his arm,

            “I learned a bit from a nun in Germany, believe it or not,” he smiled, moving his fingers up and down the frets, strumming gently, slowly, not quite confident. “I’m not very good, though,”

            “It sounds good to me,” Courfeyrac grinned.

            “Let Vertigo play!” Joly said with a smile. “Grantaire says he’s very good!” Feuilly and Jehan stood from the bench, and Courfeyrac watched attentively, waiting for Enjolras to sit down.

            “Oh I couldn’t—” he replied, “I’m not—”

            “Please Enjolras! I want to hear!” Courfeyrac cooed. The commotion had called Combeferre from his room, and he sat on the stairs, watching quietly.

            “Go on, Apollo. I love it when you play,” he smiled. Enjolras sighed, but sat, and shook his wrists before placing his fingers on the keys. They glided there so naturally, as if a part of a single body, the sound pure and lyrical, filling the room in swells.

            Enjolras played an entire song from memory, and by the time he finished, the entire household was watching, even Eponine, who was quiet as a mouse and kept to herself most of the time.

            “Oh Enjolras, that was beautiful!” Cosette mused, clapping when the song was over. “I haven’t heard anyone play so well since my father took me to see shows as a little girl!”

            “You have a gift, Enjolras,” Feuilly agreed. Jehan nodded in agreement from where he stood snuggled against his side.

            “Oh I don’t know about that…” Enjolras blushed, standing from the bench.

            “It’s true!” Courfeyrac concurred. “My mother used to play that song on the record player when I was little. It sounded just the same!”

            “Does anybody else play?” Bossuet asked, holding the guitar carefully for just a moment before placing it down on the floor again. He was horribly clumsy, and had poor luck to boot, and he didn’t want to break it.

            “I play the guitar, a little,” Eponine said quietly.

            “I know the fiddle and the flute, but I suppose that isn’t much use!” Jehan smiled. Grantaire held up a finger, _just a second_ , and reached behind the piano, retrieving a long, thin instrument case. He handed it to Jehan, who took it gingerly, tears in his eyes. Inside, nestled in red velvet, sat a silver flute.

            “Is this for me?” he asked, wiping his eyes on the back of his hand.

            “It is,” R replied.

            “Oh I can’t—I don’t—” he looked around at his friends.

            “Enjolras told me you used to like to play, that your grandmother taught you,”

            “She did,” he smiled, running his fingers down the shiny surface, placing the box onto the piano bench and removing the pieces, fitting them together snugly before blowing gently over the mouth piece. The sound was clear and ringing, like a silver bell. “I’ve never played one this nice before, though,”

            “Well now you have,” Grantaire smiled.

            “Thank you, Grantaire, thank you so much,” he hugged him.

            “Any time, Prouvaire,”

            “Well I think we ought to start a party,” Feuilly grinned. “Dinner and a show!”

            “I’ll start dinner!” Bahorel smiled.

 

—o0o—

 

Enjolras lay beside Grantaire in bed that night after an evening of music and singing.

            “That was so much fun,” Enjolras cooed, running his hand through Grantaire’s wiry curls.

            “It was,” he agreed, propping himself up on his elbow and running his hand under Enjolras’ night shirt, coaxing it off. Enjolras complied, letting R mouth at his collarbones, his hands wandering downward.

            “I love you,” Enjolras smiled, his arms around Grantaire’s shoulders, scratching his back lightly, the way he liked.

            “I love you too, Apollo, more than you know,”

            “I still feel badly…You didn’t have to get the piano for me…I’m sure it—” he inhaled sharply as Grantaire took him in his hand. “—Cost quite a lot,”

            “To be completely honest, I bought it for myself,” he said between kisses, nuzzling Enjolras’ neck with his nose. “I came to realize during our stay at your parent’s house that there are few things I find more maddening than you playing the piano,”

            “Good to know,” he smiled.

            “I’d have you on top of it if it wouldn’t wake the entire house,” Enjolras hummed contentedly as Grantaire continued kissing and pawing.

            “Perhaps we’ll have the house to ourselves, some time,”

            “Perhaps,” Grantaire smiled, holding him tight.

 

—o0o—

 

That night, Jehan finally allowed Feuilly to share his bed.

 

It was a big step. Jehan hadn’t allowed anyone to sleep in the same room with him since being at the colony, but Feuilly was patient and loving and supportive, and Jehan asked him to share the bed.

            He felt badly about it to begin with, as he had been sleeping in Feuilly’s bed for the past week, leaving Feuilly on the sofa downstairs in the little house in the yard. Of course Jehan had offered to take the couch, Feuilly insisted Jehan take the bed.

            They had only just turned in for the night when Jehan looked over the rail of the loft, down to where Feuilly lay bunched up on the sofa.

            “Feuilly,” he called quietly. He looked up.

            “Everything alright?” he replied

            “Yes! I just—I mean, would you like to sleep in bed?”

            “It’s alright, my dear, you keep the bed, I don’t mind the sofa, I promise you,”

            “No, I mean, would you like to sleep in bed…with…with me?”

            “Oh,” Feuilly sat up, surprised. “I mean, if you’d like me to, I will,”

            “I would like you to,” he smiled. “I think it might be…nice,”

            “I think it might be nice, too,” Jehan smiled when Feuilly started up the spiraling staircase. He slipped back into bed, and Feuilly sat on the edge for a moment, as if to ask _are you sure?_ Jehan smiled and pulled down the blankets.

            “Would you like me to put a pillow between us, or…” Feuilly began, but his thought was cut short by Jehan nestling against him, his head to Feuilly’s chest. He draped his arm around Prouvaire, tentatively at first, testing the waters, but after a quiet moment, they both relaxed, and laid together, just holding each other.

            “Goodnight, my dear,” Feuilly whispered into Jehan’s hair,

            “Goodnight. I love you,” Jehan replied.

            “I love you too,” he smiled.

 

 

Good job, Jehan!


	20. Chapter 20

The next morning, Jehan woke in a puddle of sunlight shining through the window beside Feuilly’s feathery bed. It was early, the sun only just peeking over the treetops, but Feuilly was awake anyhow, sitting quietly, reading an art history textbook, the one he always kept on the nightstand. He looked over when Jehan stirred, and smiled when their eyes met.

            “Good morning, my darling,” he said, sitting up, propped on a pillow, leaning his head against Feuilly’s shoulder, glancing at the textbook page. It featured works by Gian Lorenzo Bernini, an artist most famous for his sculptures.

            “Good morning,” Feuilly replied, shifting the book so that Jehan might see more clearly.

            “these sculptures look so real,” Prouvaire said, running careful fingers over the images. “It’s like they’re soft, like a real person,” he noted, taking particular interest in a detail image of a sculpted hand caressing a marble thigh, the flesh appearing pliant, though it was made of stone.

            “It does, doesn’t it?” Feuilly agreed, placing his own hand gently, carefully on Jehan’s upper leg, just below his short pajama bottoms, mimicking the image. Jehan smiled, taking Feuilly’s hand when he removed it. Feuilly turned the page, the next which depicted Barberini’s ‘Fawn’, a sculpture of a young man reclined, nude, his legs apart, his head thrown back.

            “He looks like Grantaire,” Jehan smiled, wrinkling his nose with the promise of laughter.

            “I highly doubt R has allowed you to see him in such a state,” Feuilly replied.

            “I meant his face! But you are right…I haven’t seen anybody in such a state before…”

            “That’s a bit sad, I think,” Feuilly said, closing the book and placing it onto the night table again. “This statue is meant to depict the relaxation one feels after coupling. But then again I suppose you have never gotten to feel that way.”

            “No,” Jehan replied, blushing just a bit, “but I imagine it’s quite nice…especially if someone were to stay beside you while you felt such a way,” he snuggled closer to Feuilly, running a hand down his bare chest, through the canals left between his abdominals. Suddenly, Feuilly turned and took Jehan’s chin gently in his hand, turning his head so that their lips met, Jehan’s hand pressed to Feuilly’s chest as their kiss deepened, breathing becoming ragged, coming in gasps in minute gaps between their lips. Prouvaire took Feuilly’s stubbled cheeks as he leaned back on the bed, his hair falling in an auburn halo around his head. Feuilly followed shortly, moving downward to Jehan’s delicate jaw, his neck, his clavicles. Soon his nightshirt was removed, exposing Prouvaire’s smooth, freckly chest, quite undefined, but pale and unblemished. Jehan ran deft fingers through Feuilly’s blonde hair, pulling the tie out, his short ponytail falling away into shoulder-length waves of sandy strands.

            “You’re making a mess of my hair,” Feuilly chuckled into the crook of his neck. Jehan smiled when he looked up, and kissed his nose.

            “I think you look quite dashing when you’re a bit messy,” he admitted. Feuilly grinned, raising his scruffy eyebrows and mouthing at Jehan’s slender collarbone, leaving behind a tiny purple bloom. Jehan scratched his back gently, truly unsure what to do. This was the first time he had ever laid with anyone of his own accord. Typically, at this point of contact, Jehan was drugged, unable to respond much at all. Most of the cruel men who had taken him completely skipped the niceties, not bothering to kiss his neck or take his hand, nuzzle his nose or place a gentle hand on his hip. But Feuilly seemed to know just the right thing to do, and when to do it. It seemed a natural next step for him to dip his fingers below the band of his sleep bottoms, to place a kiss on his jaw.

            Though Jehan did not protest, Feuilly stopped and looked at him, their eyes meeting.

            “What’s the matter?” Prouvaire asked.

            “Nothing at all, my darling, I just wanted to be sure you…were alright. I do not want to do anything if you don’t want to. I know you have been forced into this in the past.” Jehan ran his hand down his cheek.

            “I love you more than you know,” he replied, “and this is not like those times. For a long while I thought laying with someone was all the same, but I was wrong. Anyone can force a concoction down my throat and toss me onto a bed. But that is not what this is. This is something else. Something I have never experienced before, and something I wouldn’t want to do with anybody besides you, right now. Please. I want to do this. I love you,”

            “Just promise me you’ll let me know if you’d like to stop. I will not be angry,”

            “I know,” he smiled, untying the drawstring on Feuilly’s own trousers and pushing them down slowly, carefully, until Feuilly was nude beside him. Jehan’s breathing hitched.

            Though Feuilly had seen Jehan unclothed many times, Jehan had never beheld Feuilly in a natural state. Of course he had imagined, fantasized in a weak moment, but even so, Feuilly was more impressive than he imagined. The men who forced themselves on him in the past were all grubby, older men unable to find anyone to truly love them. They were shriveled and small, with soft bodies and stick legs. Feuilly was built and robust, like one of Bernini’s marble statues in the textbook, with perfectly shaped abdominals, corded arms and legs made strong by carrying heavy marbles and shaping stones.

            Feuilly took Jehan’s shoulders and laid him down gently until he was flat on his back, then situated himself over him, lowering himself until he was just above Jehan.

            “What are you doing?” Prouvaire asked, raising an eyebrow.

            “What do you mean?” he asked, making quick work of slicking Jehan with the small bottle of oil from the night table drawer.

            “Shouldn’t you be—I mean—” he took a quick breath at the contact.

            “I will if you’d like, but things will be much more enjoyable for you this way,” he smiled.

            “Nobody has ever tried to…make this nice for me,”

            “Well I am right now,” he smiled, lowering himself further, closing his eyes tightly as he adjusted to Jehan.

            “This is quite different from what I’ve—hmm…” he, too closed his eyes blissfully. This was painless, smooth, kind, slow. How things were supposed to be. Feuilly was taking care of everything, making sure he was comfortable, pleased. By the time they had finished, both of them were nearly floating, exhausted in the most wonderful way, Feuilly’s arms around Jehan’s slender body, raking a hand through his red hair.

            “I suppose I know what the fawn in the sculpture feels like now,” Jehan said quietly after a long while of silence.

            “I suppose you do,” he replied with a smile, tapping Jehan’s nose lovingly.

            “Thank you, Feuilly,”

            “What for?”

            “For waiting for me.”

            “I am proud of you,” he said, “and glad you have found joy again,”

            “You have shown it to me,” he closed his eyes and nestled himself closer against Feuilly, under the clean white covers. And for the first time in his life, Jehan woke beside a man he loved. A man who loved him.

 

 

 

 

 

aaaaaaannndddd that's it!  
  
I've never actually written love scenes before this story, so comments and suggestions are welcome!  Hope you liked the story!!!


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